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A  CATHEDRAL  SING 

JAMES    LANE   AI 


A  Cathedral  Singer 


A 

Cathedral  Singer 


BY 


JAMES  LANE  ALLEN 

Author  of  "The  Sword  of  Youth,"  "The  Bride 
of  the  Mistletoe,"  "The  Kentucky  Car 
dinal,"  "The  Choir  Invisible,"  etc. 


WITH  FRONTISPIECE  BY 
SIGISMOND  DB  IVANOWSKI 


V^«« 


NEW  YORK 

THE  CENTURY  CO. 

1916 


Copyright,  1914,  1916,  by 
THE  CENTURY  Co. 

Published,  March,  iQi6 


A  4V  7 

1 


TO 
PITY  AND  TO  FAITH 


M512441 


A  Cathedral  Singer 


A  Cathedral  Singer 

i 

SLOWLY  on  Morningside  Heights 
rises  the  Cathedral  of  St.  John  the 
Divine:  standing  on  a  high  rock  under 
the  Northern  sky  above  the  long  wash 
of  the  untroubled  sea,  above  the  wash  of 
the  troubled  waves  of  men. 

It  has  fit  neighbors.  Across  the 
street  to  the  north  looms  the  many- 
towered  gray-walled  Hospital  of  St. 
Luke — cathedral  of  our  ruins,  of  our 
sufferings  and  our  dust,  near  the  cathe 
dral  of  our  souls. 

Across  the  block  to  the  south  is  situ 
ated  a  shed-like  two-story  building  with 
dormer-windows  and  a  crumpled  three- 
3 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

sided  roof,  the  studios  of  the  National 
Academy  of  Design ;  and  under  that  low 
brittle  skylight  youth  toils  over  the 
shapes  and  colors  of  the  visible  vanish 
ing  paradise  of  the  earth  in  the  shadow 
of  the  cathedral  which  promises  an  un 
seen,  an  eternal  one. 

At  the  rear  of  the  cathedral,  across 
the  roadway,  stands  a  low  stone  wall. 
Just  over  the  wall  the  earth  sinks  like  a 
precipice  to  a  green  valley  bottom  far 
below.  Out  here  is  a  rugged  slope  of 
rock  and  verdure  and  forest  growth 
which  brings  into  the  city  an  ancient 
presence,  nature — nature,  the  Elysian 
Fields  of  the  art  school,  the  potter's  field 
of  the  hospital,  the  harvest  field  of  the 
church. 

This  strip  of  nature  fronts  the  dawn 

and  is  called  Morningside  Park.     Past 

the  foot  of  it  a  thoroughfare  stretches 

northward   and   southward,   level   and 

4 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

wide  and  smooth.  Over  this  thorough 
fare  the  two  opposite-moving  streams  of 
the  city's  traffic  and  travel  rush  head 
long.  Beyond  the  thoroughfare  an  em 
bankment  of  houses  shoves  its  mass  be 
fore  the  eyes,  and  beyond  the  embank 
ment  the  city  spreads  out  over  flats 
where  human  beings  are  as  thick  as 
river  reeds. 

Thus  within  small  compass  humanity 
is  here:  the  cathedral,  the  hospital,  the 
art  school,  and  a  strip  of  nature,  and  a 
broad  highway  along  which,  with  their 
hearth-fires  flickering  fitfully  under 
their  tents  of  stone,  are  encamped  life's 
restless,  light-hearted,  heavy-hearted 
Gipsies. 

It  was  Monday  morning  and  it  was 
nine  o'clock.  Over  at  the  National 
Academy  of  Design,  in  an  upper  room, 
the  members  of  one  of  the  women's  por- 

5 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

trait  classes  were  assembled,  ready  to 
begin  work.  Easels  had  been  drawn 
into  position ;  a  clear  light  from  the  blue 
sky  of  the  last  of  April  fell  through  the 
opened  roof  upon  new  canvases  fas 
tened  to  the  frames.  And  it  poured 
down  bountifully  upon  intelligent  young 
faces.  The  scene  was  a  beautiful  one, 
and  it  was  complete  except  in  one  par 
ticular:  the  teacher  of  the  class  was 
missing — the  teacher  and  a  model. 

Minutes  passed  without  his  coming, 
and  when  at  last  he  did  enter  the  room, 
he  advanced  two  or  three  steps  and 
paused  as  though  he  meant  presently  to 
go  out  again.  After  his  usual  quiet 
good-morning  with  his  sober  smile,  he 
gave  his  alert  listeners  the  clue  to  an 
unusual  situation: 

"I  told  the  class  that  to-day  we  should 
begin  a  fresh  study.  I  had  not  myself 
decided  what  this  should  be.  Several 
6 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

models  were  in  reserve,  any  one  of 
whom  could  have  been  used  to  advan 
tage  at  this  closing  stage  of  the  year's 
course.  Then  the  unexpected  hap 
pened:  on  Saturday  a  stranger,  a 
woman,  came  to  see  me  and  asked  to  be 
engaged.  It  is  this  model  that  I  have 
been  waiting  for  down-stairs." 

Their  thoughts  instantly  passed  to  the 
model:  his  impressive  manner,  his  re 
spectful  words,  invested  her  with  mys 
tery,  with  fascination.  His  counte 
nance  lighted  up  with  wonderful  inter 
est  as  he  went  on : 

"She  is  not  a  professional;  she  has 
never  posed.  In  asking  me  to  engage 
her  she  proffered  barely  the  explanation 
which  she  seemed  to  feel  due  herself.  I 
turn  this  explanation  over  to  you  be 
cause  she  wished,  I  think,  that  you  also 
should  not  misunderstand  her.  It  is  the 
fee,  then,  that  is  needed,  the  model's 
7 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

wage;  she  has  felt  the  common  lash  of 
the  poor.  Plainly  here  is  some  one  who 
has  stepped  down  from  her  place  in  life, 
who  has  descended  far  below  her  incli 
nations,  to  raise  a  small  sum  of  money. 
Why  she  does  so  is  of  course  her  own 
sacred  and  delicate  affair.  But  the 
spirit  in  which  she  does  this  becomes 
our  affair,  because  it  becomes  a  matter 
of  expression  with  her.  This  self-sac 
rifice,  this  ordeal  which  she  voluntarily 
undergoes  to  gain  her  end,  shows  in  her 
face ;  and  if  while  she  poses,  you  should 
be  fortunate  enough  to  see  this  look 
along  with  other  fine  things,  great 
things,  it  will  be  your  aim  to  trans 
fer  them  all  to  your  canvases — if  you 


can." 


He  smiled  at  them  with  a  kind  of  fos 
tering  challenge  to  their  over-confident 
impulses   and  immature   art.     But   he 
had  not  yet  fully  brought  out  what  he 
8 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

had    in    mind    about    the    mysterious 
stranger  and  he  continued : 

"We  teachers  of  art  schools  in  engag 
ing  models  have-  to  take  from  human 
material  as  we  find  it.  The  best  we 
find  is  seldom  or  never  what  we  would 
prefer.  If  I,  for  instance,  could  have 
my  choice,  my  students  would  never  be 
allowed  to  work  from  a  model  who  re 
pelled  the  student  or  left  the  student  in 
different.  No  students  of  mine,  if  I 
could  have  my  way,  should  ever  paint 
from  a  model  that  failed  to  call  forth 
the  finest  feelings.  Otherwise,  how  can 
your  best  emotions  have  full  play  in 
your  work;  and  unless  your  best  emo 
tions  enter  into  your  work,  what  will 
your  work  be  worth?  For  if  you  have 
never  before  understood  the  truth,  try 
to  realize  it  now:  that  you  will  succeed 
in  painting  only  through  the  best  that 
is  in  you;  just  as  only  the  best  in  you 
9 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

will  ever  carry  you  triumphantly  to  the 
end  of  any  practical  human  road  that  is 
worth  the  travel;  just  as  you  will  reach 
all  life's  best  goals  only  through  your 
best.  And  in  painting  remember  that 
the  best  is  never  in  the  eye,  for  the  eye 
can  only  perceive,  the  eye  can  only  di 
rect;  and  the  best  is  never  in  the  hand, 
for  the  hand  can  only  measure,  the  hand 
can  only  move.  In  painting  the  best 
comes  from  emotion.  A  human  being 
may  lack  eyes  and  be  none  the  poorer 
in  character;  a  human  being  may  lack 
hands  and  be  none  the  poorer  in  char 
acter;  but  whenever  in  life  a  person 
lacks  any  great  emotion,  that  person  is 
the  poorer  in  everything.  And  so  in 
painting  you  can  fail  after  the  eye  has 
gained  all  necessary  knowledge,  you  can 
fail  after  your  hand  has  received  all 
necessary  training,  either  because  na 
ture  has  denied  you  the  foundations  of 
10 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

great  feeling,  or  because,  having  these 
foundations,  you  have  failed  to  make 
them  the  foundations  of  your  work. 

"But  among  a  hundred  models  there 
might  not  be  one  to  arouse  such  emo 
tion.  Actually  in  the  world,  among  the 
thousands  of  people  we  know,  how  few 
stir  in  us  our  best,  force  us  to  our  best ! 
It  is  the  rarest  experience  of  our  life 
times  that  we  meet  a  man  or  a  woman 
who  literally  drives  us  to  the  realization 
of  what  we  really  are  and  can  really  do 
when  we  do  our  best.  What  we  all 
most  need  in  our  careers  is  the  one  who 
can  liberate  within  us  that  lifelong  pris 
oner  whose  doom  it  is  to  remain  a  cap 
tive  until  another  sets  it  free — our  best. 
For  we  can  never  set  our  best  free  by 
our  own  hands;  that  must  always  be 
done  by  another/' 

They  were  listening  to  him  with  a 
startled  recognition  of  their  inmost 
ii 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

selves.     He  went  on  to  drive  home  his 
point  about  the  stranger : 

"I  am  going  to  introduce  to  you,  then, 
a  model  who  beyond  all  the  others  you 
have  worked  with  will  liberate  in  you 
your  finer  selves.  It  is  a  rare  oppor 
tunity.  Do  not  thank  me.  I  did  not 
find  her.  Life's  storms  have  blown  her 
violently  against  the  walls  of  the  art 
school ;  we  must  see  to  it  at  least  that  she 
be  not  further  bruised  while  it  becomes 
her  shelter,  her  refuge.  Who  she  is, 
what  her  life  has  been,  where  she  comes 
from,  how  she  happens  to  arrive  here — 
these  are  privacies  into  which  of  course 
we  do  not  intrude.  Immediately  behind 
herself  she  drops  a  curtain  of  silence 
which  shuts  away  every  such  sign  of  her 
past.  But  there  are  other  signs  of  that 
past  which  she  cannot  hide  and  which  it 
is  our  privilege,  our  duty,  the  province 
of  our  art,  to  read.  They  are  written 
12 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

on  her  face,  on  her  hands,  on  her  bear 
ing;  they  are  written  all  over  her — the 
bruises  of  life's  rudenesses,  the  lingering 
shadows  of  dark  days,  the  unwcunded 
pride  once  and  the  wounded  pride  now, 
the  unconquerable  will,  a  soaring  spirit 
whose  wings  were  meant  for  the  upper 
air  but  which  are  broken  and  beat  the 
dust.  All  these  are  sublime  things  to 
paint  in  any  human  countenance;  they 
are  the  footprints  of  destiny  on  our 
faces.  The  greatest  masters  of  the 
brush  that  the  world  has  ever  known 
could  not  have  asked  for  anything 
greater.  When  you  behold  her,  per 
haps  some  of  you  may  think  of  certain 
brief  but  eternal  words  of  Pascal: 
'Man  is  a  reed  that  bends  but  does  not 
break/  Such  is  your  model,  then,  a 
woman  with  a  great  countenance;  the 
fighting  face  of  a  woman  at  peace. 
Now  out  upon  the  darkened  battle-field 
13 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

of  this  woman's  face  shines  one  serene 
sun,  and  it  is  that  sun  that  brings  out 
upon  it  its  marvelous  human  radiance, 
its  supreme  expression:  the  love  of  the 
mother.  Your  model  is  the  beauty  of 
motherhood,  the  sacredness  of  mother 
hood,  the  glory  of  motherhood:  that  is 
to  be  the  portrait  of  her  that  you  are  to 
paint/' 

He  stopped.  Their  faces  glowed; 
their  eyes  disclosed  depths  in  their  na 
tures  never  stirred  before;  from  out 
those  depths  youthful,  tender  creative 
forces  came  forth,  eager  to  serve, 
to  obey.  He  added  a  few  particu 
lars: 

"For  a  while  after  she  is  posed  you 
will  no  doubt  see  many  different  expres 
sions  pass  rapidly  over  her  face.  This 
will  be  a  new  and  painful  experience  to 
which  she  will  not  be  able  to  adapt  her 
self  at  once.  She  will  be  uncomfort- 
14 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

able,  she  will  be  awkward,  she  will  be 
embarrassed,  she  will  be  without  her 
full  value.  But  I  think  from  what  I 
discovered  while  talking  with  her  that 
she  will  soon  grow  oblivious  to  her  sur 
roundings.  They  will  not  overwhelm 
her;  she  will  finally  overwhelm  them. 
She  will  soon  forget  you  and  me  and 
the  studio ;  the  one  ruling  passion  of  her 
life  will  sweep  back  into  consciousness ; 
and  then  out  upon  her  features  will 
come  again  that  marvelous  look  which 
has  almost  remodeled  them  to  itself 
alone." 

He  added,  "I  will  go  for  her.  By 
this  time  she  must  be  waiting  down- 
stairs." 

As  he  turned  he  glanced  at  the 
screens  placed  at  that  end  of  the  room ; 
behind  these  the  models  made  their 
preparations  to  pose. 

"I  have  arranged,"  he  said  signifi- 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

cantly,  "that  she  shall  leave  her  things 
down-stairs/' 

It  seemed  long  before  they  heard  him 
on  the  way  back.  He  came  slowly,  as 
though  concerned  not  to  hurry  his 
model,  as  though  to  save  her  from  the 
disrespect  of  urgency.  Even  the  natu 
ral  noise  of  his  feet  on  the  bare  hallway 
was  restrained.  They  listened  for  the 
sounds  of  her  footsteps.  In  the  tense 
silence  of  the  studio  a  pin-drop  might 
have  been  noticeable,  a  breath  would 
have  been  audible;  but  they  could  not 
hear  her  footsteps.  He  might  have 
been  followed  by  a  spirit.  Those  feet 
of  hers  must  be  very  light  feet,  very 
quiet  feet,  the  feet  of  the  well-bred. 

He  entered  and  advanced  a  few  paces 
and  turned  as  though  to  make  way  for 
some  one  of  far  more  importance  than 
himself;  and  there  walked  forward  and 
stopped  at  a  delicate  distance  from  them 
16 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

all  a  woman,  bareheaded,  ungloved, 
slender,  straight,  of  middle  height,  and 
in  life's  middle  years — Rachel  Trues- 
dale. 

She  did  not  look  at  him  or  at  them; 
she  did  not  look  at  anything.  It  was 
not  her  role  to  notice.  She  merely 
waited,  perfectly  composed,  to  be  told 
what  to  do.  Her  thoughts  and  emo 
tions  did  not  enter  into  the  scene  at  all; 
she  was  there  solely  as  having  been 
hired  for  work. 

One  privilege  she  had  exercised  un 
sparingly — not  to  offer  herself  for  this 
employment  as  becomingly  dressed  for 
it.  She  submitted  herself  to  be  painted 
in  austerest  fidelity  to  nature,  plainly 
dressed,  her  hair  parted  and  brushed 
severely  back.  Women,  sometimes 
great  women,  have  in  history,  at  the 
hour  of  their  supreme  tragedies,  thus 
demeaned  themselves — for  the  hospital, 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

for  baptism,  for  the  guillotine,  for  the 
stake,  for  the  cross. 

But  because  she  made  herself  poor 
in  apparel,  she  became  most  rich  in 
her  humanity.  There  was  nothing  for 
the  eye  to  rest  upon  but  her  bare  self. 
And  thus  the  contours  of  the  head,  the 
beauty  of  the  hair,  the  line  of  it  along 
the  forehead  and  temples,  the  curvature 
of  the  brows,  the  chiseling  of  the  proud 
nostrils  and  the  high  bridge  of  the  nose, 
the  molding  of  the  mouth,  the  modeling 
of  the  throat,  the  shaping  of  the  shoul 
ders,  the  grace  of  the  arms  and  the 
hands — all  became  conspicuous,  absorb 
ing.  The  slightest  elements  of  phy 
sique  and  of  personality  came  into  view 
powerful,  unforgetable. 

She    stood,    not    noticing    anything, 

waiting    for    instructions.     With    the 

courtesy  which  was  the  soul  of  him  and 

the  secret  of  his  genius  for  inspiring 

18 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

others  to  do  their  utmost,  the  master  of 
the  class  glanced  at  her  and  glanced  at 
the  members  of  the  class,  and  tried  to 
draw  them  together  with  a  mere  smile 
of  sympathetic  introduction.  It  was  an 
attempt  to  break  the  ice.  For  them  it 
did  break  the  ice;  all  responded  with  a 
smile  for  her  or  with  other  play  of  the 
features  that  meant  gracious  recogni 
tion.  With  her  the  ice  remained  un 
broken;  she  withheld  all  response  to 
their  courteous  overtures.  Either  she 
may  not  have  trusted  herself  to  respond ; 
or  waiting  there  merely  as  a  model,  she 
declined  to  establish  any  other  under 
standing  with  them  whatsoever.  So 
that  he  went  further  in  the  kindness  of 
his  intention  and  said: 

"Madam,  this  is  my  class  of  eager, 
warm,  generous  young  natures  who  are 
to  have  the  opportunity  of  trying  to 
paint  you.  They  are  mere  beginners; 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

their  art  is  still  unformed.  But  you 
may  believe  that  they  will  put  their  best 
into  what  they  are  about  to  undertake; 
the  loyalty  of  the  hand,  the  respect  of 
the  eye,  the  tenderness  of  their  mem 
ories,  consecration  to  their  art,  their 
dreams  and  hopes  of  future  success. 
Now  if  you  will  be  good  enough  to  sit 
here,  I  will  pose  you." 

He  stepped  toward  a  circular  revolv 
ing-platform  placed  at  the  focus  of  the 
massed  easels:  it  was  the  model's  rack 
of  patience,  the  mount  of  humiliation, 
the  scaffold  of  exposure. 

She  had  perhaps  not  understood  that 
this  would  be  required  of  her,  this  in 
dignity,  that  she  must  climb  upon  a 
block  like  an  old-time  slave  at  an  auc 
tion.  For  one  instant  her  righting  look 
came  back  and  her  eyes,  though  they 
rested  on  vacancy,  blazed  on  vacancy 
and  an  ugly  red  rushed  over  her  face 
20 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

which  had  been  whiter  than  colorless. 
Then  as  though  she  had  become  disci 
plined  through  years  of  necessity  to 
do  the  unworthy  things  that  must  be 
done,  she  stepped  resolutely  though 
unsteadily  upon  the  platform.  A 
long  procession  of  men  and  women 
had  climbed  thither  from  many  a 
motive  on  life's  upward  or  downward 
road. 

He  had  specially  chosen  a  chair  for 
a  three-quarter  portrait,  stately,  richly 
carved ;  about  it  hung  an  atmosphere  of 
high-born  things. 

Now,  the  body  has  definite  memories 
as  the  mind  has  definite  memories,  and 
scarcely  had  she  seated  herself  before 
the  recollections  of  former  years  re 
vived  in  her  and  she  yielded  herself  to 
the  chair  as  though  she  had  risen  from 
it  a  moment  before.  He  did  not  have 
to  pose  her;  she  had  posed  herself  by 
21 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

grace  of  bygone  luxurious  ways.  A 
few  changes  in  the  arrangement  of  the 
hands  he  did  make.  There  was  re 
quired  some  separation  of  the  fingers; 
excitement  caused  her  to  hold  them  too 
closely  together.  And  he  drew  the  en 
tire  hands  into  notice;  he  specially 
wished  them  to  be  appreciated  in  the 
portrait.  They  were  wonderful  hands : 
they  looked  eloquent  with  the  histories 
of  generations;  their  youthfulness 
seemed  centuries  old.  Yet  all  over 
them,  barely  to  be  seen,  were  the  marks 
of  life's  experience,  the  delicate  but 
dread  sculpture  of  adversity. 

For  a  while  it  was  as  he  had  foreseen. 
She  was  aware  only  of  the  brutality  of 
her  position;  and  her  face,  by  its  con 
fused  expressions  and  quick  changes  of 
color,  showed  what  painful  thoughts 
surged.  Afterward  a  change  came 
gradually.  As  though  she  could  en- 
22 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

dure  the  ordeal  only  by  forgetting  it 
and  could  forget  it  only  by  looking 
ahead  into  the  happiness  for  which  it 
was  endured,  slowly  there  began  to 
shine  out  upon  her  face  its  ruling  pas 
sion — the  acceptance  of  life  and  the  love 
of  the  mother  glinting  as  from  a  cloud- 
hidden  sun  across  the  world's  storm. 
When  this  expression  had  come  out,  it 
stayed  there.  She  had  forgotten  her 
surroundings,  she  had  forgotten  herself. 
Poor  indeed  must  have  been  the  soul 
that  \vould  not  have  been  touched  by  the 
spectacle  of  her,  thrilled  by  her  as  by  a 
great  vision. 

There  was  silence  in  the  room  of 
young  workers.  Before  them,  on  the 
face  of  the  unknown,  was  the  only  look 
that  the  whole  world  knows — the  love 
and  self-sacrifice  of  the  mother ;  perhaps 
the  only  element  of  our  better  humanity 
that  never  once  in  the  history  of  man- 
23 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

kind  has  been  misunderstood  and  ridi 
culed  or  envied  and  reviled. 

Some  of  them  worked  with  faces 
brightened  by  thoughts  of  devoted 
mothers  at  home;  the  eyes  of  a  few 
were  shadowed  by  memories  of  mothers 
alienated  or  dead. 


II 

THAT  morning  on  the  ledge  of  rock 
at  the  rear  of  the  cathedral  Na 
ture  hinted  to  passers  what  they  would 
more  abundantly  see  if  fortunate  enough 
to  be  with  her  where  she  was  entirely  at 
home — out  in  the  country. 

The  young  grass  along  the  foot  of 
this  slope  was  thick  and  green;  imag 
ination  missed  from  the  picture  rural 
sheep,  their  fleeces  wret  with  April  rain. 
Along  the  summit  of  the  slope  trees  of 
oak  and  ash  and  maple  and  chestnut  and 
poplar  lifted  against  the  sky  their  united 
forest  strength.  Between  the  trees 
above  and  the  grass  below,  the  embank 
ment  spread  before  the  eye  the  enchant 
ment  of  a  spring  landscape,  with  late 
25 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

bare  boughs  and  early  green  boughs  and 
other  boughs  in  blossom. 

The  earliest  blossoms  on  our  part  of 
the  earth's  surface  are  nearly  always 
white.  They  have  forced  their  way  to 
the  sun  along  a  frozen  path  and  look 
akin  to  the  perils  of  their  road:  the 
snow-threatened  lily  of  the  valley,  the 
chill  snowdrop,  the  frosty  snowball,  the 
bleak  hawtree,  the  wintry  wild  cherry, 
the  wintry  dogwood.  As  the  eye  swept 
the  park  expanse  this  morning,  here  and 
there  some  of  these  were  as  the  last 
tokens  of  winter's  mantle  instead  of  the 
first  tokens  of  summer's. 

There  were  flushes  of  color  also,  as 
where  in  deep  soil,  on  a  projection  of 
rock,  a  pink  hawthorn  stood  studded  to 
the  tips  of  its  branches  with  leaf  and 
flower.  But  such  flushes  of  color  were 
as  false  notes  of  the  earth,  as  harmonies 
of  summer  thrust  into  the  wrong  places 
26 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

and  become  discords.  The  time  for 
them  was  not  yet.  The  hour  called  for 
hardy  adventurous  things,  awakened 
out  of  their  cold  sleep  on  the  rocks. 
The  blue  of  the  firmament  was  not  dark 
summer  blue  but  seemed  the  sky's  first 
pale  response  to  the  sun.  The  sun  was 
not  rich  summer  gold  but  flashed  silver 
rays.  The  ground  scattered  no  odors; 
all  was  the  budding  youth  of  Nature  on 
the  rocks. 

Paths  wind  hither  and  thither  over 
this  park  hillside.  Benches  are  placed 
at  different  levels  along  the  way.  If 
you  are  going  up,  you  may  rest ;  if  you 
are  coming  down,  you  may  linger;  if 
neither  going  up  nor  coming  down,  you 
may  with  a  book  seek  out  some  retreat 
of  shade  and  coolness  and  keep  at  a  dis 
tance  the  millions  that  rush  and  crush 
around  the  park  as  waters  roar  against 
some  lone  mid-ocean  island. 
27 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

About  eleven  o'clock  that  morning, 
on  one  of  these  benches  placed  where 
rock  is  steepest  and  forest  trees  stand 
close  together  and  vines  are  rank  with 
shade,  a  sociable-looking  little  fellow  of 
some  ten  hardy  well-buffeted  years  had 
sat  down  for  the  moment  without  a  com 
panion.  He  had  thrown  upon  the  bench 
beside  him  his  sun-faded,  rain-faded, 
shapeless  cap,  uncovering  much  bronzed 
hair ;  and  as  though  by  this  simple  act  he 
had  cleared  the  way  for  business,  he 
thrust  one  capable-looking  hand  deep 
into  one  of  his  pockets.  The  fingers 
closed  upon  what  they  found  there,  like 
the  meshes  of  a  deep-sea  net  filled  with 
its  catch,  and  were  slowly  drawn  to  the 
surface.  The  catch  consisted  of  one- 
cent  and  five-cent  pieces,  representing 
the  sales  of  his  morning  papers.  He 
counted  the  coins  one  by  one  over  into 
the  palm  of  the  other  hand,  which  then 
28 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

closed  upon  the  total  like  another  net, 
and  dropped  the  treasure  back  into  the 
deep  sea  of  the  other  pocket. 

His  absorption  in  this  process  had 
been  intense;  his  satisfaction  with  the 
result  was  complete.  Perhaps  after 
every  act  of  successful  banking  there 
takes  place  in  the  mind  of  man,  spend 
thrift  and  miser,  a  momentary  lull  of 
energy,  a  kind  of  brief  Pax  vobiscum, 
O  my  soul  and  stomach,  my  twin  mas 
ters  of  need  and  greed !  And  possibly, 
as  the  lad  deposited  his  earnings,  he  was 
old  enough  to  enter  a  little  way  into  this 
adult  and  despicable  joy.  Be  this  as  it 
may,  he  was  not  the  next  instant  up 
again  and  busy.  He  caught  up  his  cap, 
dropped  it  not  on  his  head  but  on  one 
of  his  ragged  knees;  planted  a  sturdy 
hand  on  it  and  the  other  sturdy  hand  on 
the  other  knee ;  and  with  his  sturdy  legs 
swinging  under  the  bench,  toe  kicking 
29 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

heel  and  heel  kicking  toe,  he  rested 
briefly  from  life's  battle. 

The  signs  of  battle  were  thick  on  him, 
unmistakable.  The  palpable  sign,  the 
conqueror's  sign,  was  the  profits  won  in 
the  struggle  of  the  streets.  The  other 
signs  may  be  set  down  as  loss — dirt  and 
raggedness  and  disorder.  His  hair 
might  never  have  been  straightened  out 
with  a  comb ;  his  hands  were  not  politely 
mentionable;  his  coarse  shoes,  which 
seemed  to  have  been  bought  with  the 
agreement  that  they  were  never  to  wear 
out,  were  ill-conditioned  with  general 
dust  and  the  special  grime  of  melted 
pitch  from  the  typical  contractor's 
cheapened  asphalt ;  one  of  his'  stockings 
had  a  fresh  rent  and  old  rents  enlarged 
their  grievances. 

A  single  sign  of  victory  was  better 
even  than  the  money  in  the  pocket — the 
whole  lad  himself.  He  was  strongly 
30 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

built,  frankly  fashioned,  with  happy 
grayish  eyes,  which  had  in  them  some 
of  the  cold  warrior  blue  of  the  sky 
that  day;  and  they  were  set  wide  apart 
in  a  compact  round  head,  which  some 
how  suggested  a  bronze  sphere  on  a 
column  of  triumph.  Altogether  he  be 
longed  to  that  hillside  of  nature,  him 
self  a  human  growth  budding  out  of 
wintry  fortunes  into  life's  April,  open 
ing  on  the  rocks  hardy  and  all  white. 

But  to  sit  there  swinging  his  legs — 
this  did  not  suffice  to  satisfy  his  heart, 
did  not  enable  him  to  celebrate  his  in 
stincts  ;  and  suddenly  from  his  thicket  of 
forest  trees  and  greening  bushes  he  be 
gan  to  pour  forth  a  thrilling  little  tide 
of  song,  with  the  native  sweetness  of 
some  human  linnet  unaware  of  its  tran 
scendent  gift. 

Up  the  steep  hill  a  man  not  yet  of  mid 
dle  age  had  mounted  from  the  flats.  He 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

was  on  his  way  toward  the  parapet 
above.  He  came  on  slowly,  hat  in  hand, 
perspiration  on  his  forehead ;  that  climb 
from  base  to  summit  stretches  a  healthy 
walker  and  does  him  good.  At  a  turn 
of  the  road  under  the  forest  trees  with 
shrubbery  alongside  he  stopped  sud 
denly,  as  a  naturalist  might  pause  with 
half-lifted  foot  beside  a  dense  copse  in 
which  some  unknown  species  of  bird 
sang — a  young  bird  just  rinding  its 
notes. 

It  was  his  vocation  to  discover  and 
to  train  voices.  His  definite  work  in 
music  was  to  help  perpetually  to  rebuild 
for  the  world  that  ever-sinking  bridge 
of  sound  over  which  Faith  aids  itself  in 
walking  toward  the  eternal.  This 
bridge  of  falling  notes  is  as  Nature's 
bridge  of  falling  drops :  individual  drops 
appear  for  an  instant  in  the  rainbow, 
then  disappear,  but  century  after  cen- 
32 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

tury  the  great  arch  stands  there  on  the 
sky  unshaken.  So  throughout  the  ages 
the  bridge  of  sacred  music,  in  which  in 
dividual  voices  are  heard  a  little  while 
and  then  are  heard  no  longer,  remains 
for  man  as  one  same  structure  of  rock 
by  which  he  passes  over  from  the  mor 
tal  to  the  immortal. 

Such  was  his  life-work.  As  he  now 
paused  and  listened,  you  might  have  in 
terpreted  his  demeanor  as  that  of  a  pro 
fessional  musician  whose  ears  brought 
tidings  that  greatly  astonished  him. 
The  thought  had  at  once  come  to  him  of 
how  the  New  York  papers  once  in  a 
while  print  a  story  of  the  accidental  find 
ing  in  it  of  a  wonderful  voice — in  New 
York,  where  you  can  find  everything 
that  is  human.  He  recalled  throughout 
the  history  of  music  instances  in  which 
some  one  of  the  world's  famous  singers 
had  been  picked  up  on  life's  road  where 
33 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

it  was  roughest.  Was  anything  like 
this  now  to  become  his  own  experience  ? 
Falling  on  his  ear  was  an  unmistakable 
gift  of  song,  a  wandering,  haunting, 
unidentified  note  under  that  early  April 
blue.  He  had  never  heard  anything 
like  it.  It  was  a  singing  soul. 

Voice  alone  did  not  suffice  for  his  pur 
pose;  the  singer's  face,  personality, 
manners,  some  unfortunate  strain  in  the 
blood,  might  debar  the  voice,  block  its 
acceptance,  ruin  everything.  He  almost 
dreaded  to  walk  on,  to  explore  what  was 
ahead.  But  his  road  led  that  way,  and 
three  steps  brought  him  around  the 
woody  bend  of  it. 

There  he  stopped  again.  In  an  em 
brasure  of  rock  on  which  vines  were 
turning  green,  a  little  fellow,  seasoned 
by  wind  and  sun,  with  a  countenance 
open  and  friendly,  like  the  sky,  was 
pouring  out  his  full  heart. 
34 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

The  instant  the  man  came  into  view, 
the  song  was  broken  off.  The  sturdy 
figure  started  up  and  sprang  forward 
with  the  instinct  of  business.  When 
any  one  paused  and  looked  question- 
ingly  at  him,  as  this  man  now  did,  it 
meant  papers  and  pennies.  His  inquiry 
was  quite  breathless: 

"Do  you  want  a  paper,  Mister? 
What  paper  do  you  want?  I  can 
get  you  one  on  the  avenue  in  a  min 
ute." 

He  stood  looking  up  at  the  man, 
alert,  capable,  fearless,  ingratiating. 
The  man  had  instantly  taken  note  of  the 
speaking  voice,  which  is  often  a  safer 
first  criterion  to  go  by  than  the  singing 
voice  itself.  He  pronounced  it  sincere, 
robust,  true,  sweet,  victorious.  And 
very  quickly  also  he  made  up  his  mind 
that  conditions  must  have  been  rare  and 
fortunate  with  the  lad  at  his  birth: 
35 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

blood  will  tell,  and  blood  told  now  even 
in  this  dirt  and  in  these  rags. 

His  reply  bore  testimony  to  how  ap 
preciative  he  felt  of  all  that  faced  him 
there  so  humanly  on  the  rock. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said,  "I  have  read 
the  papers/' 

Having  thus  disposed  of  some  of  the 
lad's  words,  he  addressed  a  pointed 
question  to  the  rest: 

"But  how  did  you  happen  to  call  me 
mister?  I  thought  boss  was  what  you 
little  New-Yorkers  generally  said." 

"I  'm  not  a  New-Yorker,"  announced 
the  lad,  with  ready  courtesy  and  good 
nature.  "I  don't  say  boss.  We  are 
Southerners.  I  say  mister." 

He  gave  the  man  an  unfavorable  look 
as  though  of  a  mind  to  take  his  true 
measure ;  also  as  being  of  a  mind  to  let 
the  man  know  that  he  had  not  taken  the 
boy's  measure. 

36 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

The  man  smiled  at  being  corrected  to 
such  good  purpose;  but  before  he  could 
speak  again,  the  lad  went  on  to  clinch 
his  correction: 

"And  I  only  say  mister  when  I  am 
selling  papers  and  am  not  at  home." 

"What  do  you  say  when  not  selling 
papers  and  when  you  are  at  home?" 
asked  the  man,  forced  to  a  smile. 

"I  say  'sir/  if  I  say  anything,"  re 
torted  the  lad,  flaring  up,  but  still  polite. 

The  man  looked  at  him  with  increas 
ing  interest.  Another  word  in  the  lad's 
speech  had  caught  his  attention — South 
erner. 

That  word  had  been  with  him  a  good 
deal  in  recent  years;  he  had  not  quite 
seemed  able  to  get  away  from  it. 
Nearly  all  classes  of  people  in  New 
York  who  were  not  Southerners  had 
been  increasingly  reminded  that  the 
Southerners  were  upon  them.  He  had 
37 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

satirically  worked  it  out  in  his  own  mind 
that  if  he  were  ever  pushed  out  of  his 
own  position,  it  would  be  some  South 
erner  who  pushed  him.  He  sometimes 
thought  of  the  whole  New  York  profes 
sional  situation  as  a  public  wonderful 
awful  dinner  at  which  almost  nothing 
was  served  that  did  not  have  a  Southern 
flavor  as  from  a  kind  of  pepper.  The 
guests  were  bound  to  have  administered 
to  them  their  shares  of  this  pepper; 
there  was  no  getting  away  from  the 
table  and  no  getting  the  pepper  out  of 
the  dinner.  There  was  the  intrusion 
of  the  South  into  every  delicacy. 

"We  are  Southerners,"  the  lad  had 
announced  decisively;  and  there  the 
flavor  was  again,  though  this  time  as 
from  a  mere  pepper-box  in  a  school 
basket.  Thus  his  next  remark  was  ad 
dressed  to  his  own  thoughts  as  well  as 
to  the  lad : 

38 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"And  so  you  are  a  Southerner!"  he 
reflected  audibly,  looking  down  at  the 
Southern  plague  in  small  form. 

"Why,  yes,  Mister,  we  are  Southern 
ers/'  replied  the  lad,  with  a  gay  and 
careless  patriotism;  and  as  giving  the 
handy  pepper-box  a  shake,  he  began  to 
dust  the  air  with  its  contents:  "I  was 
born  on  an  old  Southern  battle-field. 
When  Granny  was  born  there,  it  had 
hardly  stopped  smoking;  it  was  still  piled 
with  wounded  and  dead  Northerners. 
Why,  one  of  the  worst  batteries  was 
planted  in  our  front  porch." 

This  enthusiasm  as  to  the  front  porch 
was  assumed  to  be  acceptable  to  the  lis 
tener.  The  battery  might  have  been 
a  Cherokee  rose. 

The  man  had  listened  with  a  quizzi 
cal  light  in  his  eyes. 

"In  what  direction  did  you  say  that 
battery  was  pointed?" 
39 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"I  didn't  say;  but  it  was  pointed  up 
this  way,  of  course." 

The  man  laughed  outright. 

"And  so  you  followed  in  the  direction 
of  the  deadly  Southern  shell  and  came 
north — as  a  small  grape-shot !" 

"But,  Mister,  that  was  long  ago. 
They  had  their  quarrel  out  long  ago. 
That 's  the  way  we  boys  do :  fight  it  out 
and  make  friends  again.  Don't  you  do 
that  way?" 

"It 's  a  very  good  way  to  do,"  said  the 
man.  "And  so  you  sell  papers?" 

"I  sell  papers  to  people  in  the  park, 
Mister,  and  back  up  on  the  avenue. 
Granny  is  particular.  I  'm  not  a  regu 
lar  newsboy." 

"I  heard  you  singing.  Does  anybody 
teach  you?" 

"Granny." 

"And  so  your  grandmother  is  your 
music  teacher  ?" 

40 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

It  was  the  lad's  turn  to  laugh. 

"Granny  is  n't  my  grandmother ; 
Granny  is  my  mother." 

Toppling  over  in  the  dust  of  imagina 
tion  went  a  gaunt  granny  image;  in  its 
place  a  much  more  vital  being  appeared 
just  behind  the  form  of  the  lad,  guard 
ing  him  even  now  while  he  spoke. 

"And  so  your  mother  takes  pupils?" 

"Only  me." 

"Has  any  one  heard  you  sing?" 

"Only  she." 

It  had  become  more  and  more  the  part 
of  the  man  during  this  colloquy  to  smile ; 
he  felt  repeatedly  in  the  flank  of  his 
mind  a  jab  of  the  comic  spur.  Now  he 
laughed  at  the  lad's  deadly  prepared 
ness  ;  business  competition  in  New  York 
had  taught  him  that  he  who  hesitates  a 
moment  is  lost.  The  boy  seemed  ready 
with  his  answers  before  he  heard  the 
man's  questions. 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Do  you  mind  telling  me  your 
name?" 

"My  name  is  Ashby.  Ashby  Trues- 
dale.  We  come  from  an  old  English 
family.  What  is  your  name,  and  what 
kind  of  family  do  you  come  from,  Mis 
ter?" 

"And  where  do  you  live?" 

The  lad  wheeled,  and  strode  to  the 
edge  of  the  rock, — the  path  along  there 
is  blasted  out  of  solid  rock, — and  look 
ing  downward,  he  pointed  to  the  first 
row  of  buildings  in  the  distant  flats. 

"We  live  down  there.  You  see  that 
house  in  the  middle  of  the  block,  the 
little  old  one  between  the  two  big  ones  ?" 

The  man  did  not  feel  sure. 

"Well,  Mister,  you  see  the  statue  of 
Washington  and  Lafayette  ?" 

The  man  was  certain  he  saw  Wash 
ington  and  Lafayette. 

"Well,  from  there  you  follow  my  fin- 
42 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

ger  along  the  row  of  houses  till  you 
come  to  the  littlest,  oldest,  dingiest  one. 
You  see  it  now,  don't  you  ?  We  live  up 
under  the  roof." 

"What  is  the  number?" 

"It  is  n't  any  number.  It 's  half  a 
number.  We  live  in  the  half  that  is  n't 
numbered ;  the  other  half  gets  the  num 
ber." 

"And  you  take  your  music  lessons  in 
one  half?" 

"Why,  yes,  Mister.     WThy  not?" 

"On  a  piano?" 

"Why,  yes,  Mister;  on  my  piano." 

"Oh,  you  have  a  piano,  have  you?" 

"There  is  n't  any  sound  in  about  half 
the  keys.  Granny  says  the  time  has 
come  to  rent  a  better  one.  She  has 
gone  over  to  the  art  school  to-day  to 
pose  to  get  the  money." 

A  chill  of  silence  fell  between  the  talk 
ers,  the  one  looking  up  and  the  other 
43 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

looking  down.  The  man's  next  ques 
tion  was  put  in  a  more  guarded  tone : 

"Does  your  mother  pose  as  a  model?" 

"No,  Mister,  she  does  n't  pose  as  a 
model.  She  's  posing  as  herself.  She 
said  I  must  have  a  teacher.  Mister, 
were  you  ever  poor?" 

The  man  looked  the  boy  over  from 
head  to  foot. 

"Do  you  think  you  are  poor?"  he 
asked. 

The  good-natured  reply  came  back  in 
a  droll  tone : 

"Well,  Mister,  we  certainly  are  n't 
rich." 

"Let  us  see,"  objected  the  man,  as 
though  this  were  a  point  which  had  bet 
ter  not  be  yielded,  and  he  began  with  a 
voice  of  one  reckoning  up  items :  "Two 
feet,  each  cheap  at,  say,  five  millions. 
Two  hands — five  millions  apiece  for 
hands.  At  least  ten  millions  for  each 
44 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

eye.  About  the  same  for  the  ears. 
Certainly  twenty  millions  for  your  teeth. 
Forty  millions  for  your  stomach.  On 
the  whole,  at  a  rough  estimate  you  must 
easily  be  worth  over  one  hundred  mil 
lions.  There  are  quite  a  number  of  old 
gentlemen  in  New  York,  and  a  good 
many  young  ones,  who  would  gladly  pay 
that  amount  for  your  investments,  for 
your  securities." 

The  lad  with  eager  upturned  counte 
nance  did  not  conceal  his  amusement 
while  the  man  drew  this  picture  of  him 
as  a  living  ragged  gold-mine,  as  actu 
ally  put  together  and  made  up  of  pieces 
of  fabulous  treasure.  A  child's  notion 
of  wealth  is  the  power  to  pay  for  what 
it  has  not.  The  wealth  that  childhood 
is,  escapes  childhood;  it  does  not  escape 
the  old.  What  most  concerned  the  lad 
as  to  these  priceless  feet  and  hands  and 
eyes  and  ears  was  the  hard-knocked-in 
45 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

fact  that  many  a  time  he  ached  through 
out  this  reputed  treasury  of  his  being 
for  a  five-cent  piece,  and  these  reputed 
millionaires,  acting  together  and  do 
ing  their  level  best,  could  not  produce 
one. 

Nevertheless,  this  fresh  and  never-be 
fore-imagined  image  of  his  self-riches 
amused  him.  It  somehow  put  him  over 
into  the  class  of  enormously  opulent 
things ;  and  finding  himself  a  little  lonely 
on  that  new  landscape,  he  cast  about 
for  some  object  of  comparison.  Thus 
his  mind  was  led  to  the  richest  of  all 
near-by  objects. 

"If  I  were  worth  a  hundred  million/' 
he  said,  with  a  satisfied  twinkle  in  his 
eyes,  "I  would  be  as  rich  as  the  cathe 
dral." 

A  significant  silence  followed.  The 
man  broke  it  with  a  grave  surprised  in 
quiry  : 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"How  did  you  happen  to  think  of  the 
cathedral?" 

"I  didn't  happen  to  think  of  it;  I 
could  n't  help  thinking  of  it." 

"Have  you  ever  been  in  the  cathe 
dral?"  inquired  the  man  more  gravely 
still. 

"Been  in  it!  We  go  there  all  the 
time.  It 's  our  church.  Why,  good 
Lord !  Mister,  we  are  descended  from  a 
bishop!" 

The  man  laughed  outright  long  and 
heartily. 

"Thank  you  for  telling  me,"  he  said 
as  one  who  suddenly  feels  himself  to 
have  become  a  very  small  object  through 
being  in  the  neighborhood  of  such  he 
reditary  beatitudes  and  ecclesiastical 
sanctities.  "Are  you,  indeed?  I  am 
glad  to  know.  Indeed,  I  am !" 

"Why,  Mister,  we  have  been  watch 
ing  the  cathedral  from  our  windows  for 
47 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

years.  We  can  see  the  workmen  away 
up  in  the  air  as  they  finish  one  part  and 
then  another  part.  I  can  count  the 
Apostles  on  the  roof.  You  begin  with 
James  the  Less  and  keep  straight  on 
around  until  you  come  out  at  Simon. 
Big  Jim  and  Pete  are  in  the  middle  of 
the  row/'  He  laughed. 

"Surely  you  are  not  going  to  speak  of 
an  apostle  as  Pete !  Do  you  think  that 
is  showing  proper  respect  to  an  apos 
tle?" 

"But  he  was  Pete  when  he  was  little. 
He  was  n't  an  apostle  then  and  did  n't 
have  any  respect." 

"And  you  must  n't  call  an  apostle  Big 
Jim!  It  sounds  dreadful!" 

"Then  why  did  he  try  to  call  himself 
James  the  Greater?  That  sounds 
dreadful  too.  As  far  as  size  is  con 
cerned  he  is  no  bigger  than  the  others : 
they  are  all  nine  and  a  half  feet.  The 
48 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

Archangel  Gabriel  on  the  roof,  he 's 
nine  and  a  half.  Everybody  standing 
around  on  the  outside  of  the  roof  is 
nine  and  a  half.  If  Gabriel  had  been 
turned  a  little  to  one  side,  he  would 
blow  his  trumpet  straight  over  our  flat. 
He  did  n't  blow  anywhere  one  night,  for 
a  big  wind  came  up  behind  him  and 
blew  him  down  and  he  blew  his  trumpet 
at  the  gutter.  But  he  didn't  stay 
down/'  boasted  the  lad. 

Throughout  his  talk  he  was  making  it 
clear  that  the  cathedral  was  a  neighbor 
hood  affair;  that  its  haps  and  mishaps 
possessed  for  him  the  flesh  and  blood  in 
terest  of  a  living  person.  Love  takes 
mental  possession  of  its  object  and  by 
virtue  of  his  affection  the  cathedral  had 
become  his  companion. 

"You  seem  rather  interested  in  the 
cathedral.  Very  much  interested,"  re 
marked  the  man,  strengthening  his 
49 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

statement    and    with    increased    atten 
tion. 

"Why,  of  course,  Mister.  I  Ve  been 
passing  there  nearly  every  day  since 
I  Ve  been  selling  papers  on  the  avenue. 
Sometimes  I  stop  and  watch  the  masons. 
When  I  went  with  Granny  to  the  art 
school  this  morning,  she  told  me  to  go 
home  that  way.  I  have  just  come  from 
there.  They  are  building  another  one 
of  the  chapels  now,  and  the  men  are  up 
on  the  scaffolding.  They  carried  more 
rock  up  than  they  needed  and  they 
would  walk  to  the  edge  and  throw  big 
pieces  of  it  down  with  a  smash.  The 
old  house  they  are  using  for  the  choir 
school  is  just  under  there.  Sometimes 
when  the  class  is  practising,  I  listen 
from  the  outside.  If  they  sing  high,  I 
sing  high;  if  they  sing  low,  I  sing  low. 
Why,  Mister,  I  can  sing  up  to — " 
50 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

He  broke  off  abruptly.  He  had  been 
pouring  out  all  kinds  of  confidences  to 
his  new-found  friend.  Now  he  hesi 
tated.  The  boldness  of  his  nature  de 
serted  him.  The  deadly  prepared 
ness  failed.  A  shy  appealing  look 
came  into  his  eyes  as  he  asked  his 
next  question — a  grave  question  in 
deed: 

"Mister,  do  you  love  music?" 

"Do  I  love  music?''  echoed  the 
startled  musician,  pierced  by  the  spear- 
like  sincerity  of  the  question,  which 
seemed  to  go  clean  through  him  and 
his  knowledge  and  to  point  back  to  child 
hood's  springs  of  feeling.  "Do  I  love 
music?  Yes,  some  music,  I  hope. 
Some  kinds  of  music,  I  hope." 

These  moderate,  chastened  words  re 
stored  the  boy's  confidence  and  com 
pletely  captured  his  friendship.  Now 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

he  felt  sure  of  his  comrade,  and  he  put  to 
him  a  more  searching  question : 

"Do  you  know  anything  about  the 
cathedral?" 

The  man  smiled  guiltily. 

"A  little.  I  know  a  little  about  the 
cathedral,"  he  admitted. 

There  was  a  moment  of  tense,  anx 
ious  silence.  And  now  the  whole  secret 
came  out : 

"Do  you  know  how  boys  get  into  the 
cathedral  choir  school?" 

The  man  did  not  answer.  He  stood 
looking  down  at  the  lad,  in  whose  eyes 
all  at  once  a  great  baffled  desire  told  its 
story.  Then  he  pulled  out  his  watch 
and  merely  said : 

"I  must  be  going.  Good  morning." 
He  turned  his  way  across  the  rock. 

Disappointment  darkened  the  lad's 
face  when  he  saw  that  he  was  to  receive 
no  answer;  withering  blight  dried  up 
52 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

its  joy.  But  he  recovered  himself 
quickly. 

"Well,  I  must  be  going,  too,"  he  said 
bravely  and  sweetly.  "Good  morning." 
He  turned  his  way  across  the  rock. 
But  he  had  had  a  good  time  talking  with 
this  stranger,  and,  after  all,  he  was  a 
Southerner;  and  so,  as  his  head  was 
about  to  disappear  below  the  cliff,  he 
called  back  in  his  frank  human  gallant 
way: 

"I  'm  glad  I  met  you,  Mister." 

The  man  went  up  and  the  boy  went 
down. 

The  man,  having  climbed  to  the  para 
pet,  leaned  over  the  stone  wall.  The 
tops  of  some  of  the  tall  poplar-trees, 
rooted  far  below,  were  on  a  level  with 
his  eyes.  Often  he  stopped  there  to 
watch  them  swaying  like  upright  plumes 
against  the  wind.  They  swayed  now  in 
the  silvery  April  air  with  a  ripple  of 
53 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

silvery  leaves.  His  eyes  sought  out  in 
timately  the  barely  swollen  buds  on  the 
boughs  of  other  forest  trees  yet  far  from 
leaf.  They  lingered  on  the  white  blos 
soms  of  the  various  shrubs.  They 
found  the  pink  hawthorn ;  in  the  boughs 
of  one  of  those  trees  one  night  in  Eng 
land  in  mid-May  he  had  heard  the 
nightingale,  master  singer  of  the  non- 
human  world.  Up  to  him  rose  the  en 
chanting  hill-side  picture  of  grass  and 
moss  and  fern.  It  was  all  like  a  sheet 
of  soft  organ  music  to  his  nature-read 
ing  eyes. 

While  he  gazed,  he  listened.  Down 
past  the  shadows  and  the  greenness, 
through  the  blossoms  and  the  light, 
growing  fainter  and  fainter,  went  a 
wandering  little  drift  of  melody,  a 
haunting,  unidentified  sound  under  the 
blue  cathedral  dome  of  the  sky.  He  re 
flected  again  that  he  had  never  heard 
54 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

anything  like  it.     It  was,  in  truth,  a 
singing  soul. 

Then  he  saw  the  lad's  sturdy  figure 
bound  across  the  valley  to  join  friends 
in  play  on  the  thoroughfare  that  skirts 
the  park  alongside  the  row  of  houses. 

He  himself  turned  and  went  in  the 
direction  of  the  cathedral. 

As  he  walked  slowly  along,  one  thing 
haunted  him  remorsefully — the  up 
turned  face  of  the  lad  and  the  look  in 
his  eyes  as  he  asked  the  question  which 
brought  out  the  secret  desire  of  a  life: 
"Do  you  know  how  boys  get  into  the 
cathedral  choir  school?"  Then  the 
blight  of  disappointment  when  there  was 
no  answer. 

The  man  walked  thoughtfully  on, 
seemingly  as  one  who  was  turning  over 
and  over  in  his  mind  some  difficult,  deli 
cate  matter,  looking  at  it  on  all  sides  and 
in  every  light,  as  he  must  do. 
55 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

Finally  he  quickened  his  pace  as 
though  having  decided  what  ought  to 
be  done.  He  looked  the  happier  for  his 
decision. 


Ill 

THAT  night  in  an  attic-like  room 
of  an  old  building  opposite  Morn- 
ingside  Park  a  tiny  supper-table  for  two 
stood  ready  in  the  middle  of  the  floor; 
the  supper  itself,  the  entire  meal,  was 
spread.  There  is  a  victory  which  hu 
man  nature  in  thousands  of  lives  daily 
wins  over  want,  that  though  it  cannot 
drive  poverty  from  the  scene,  it  can 
hide  its  desolation  by  the  genius  of 
choice  and  of  touch.  A  battle  of  that 
brave  and  desperate  kind  had  been 
won  in  this  garret.  Lacking  every 
luxury,  it  had  the  charm  of  tasteful 
bareness,  of  exquisite  penury.  The 
supper-table  of  cheap  wood  roughly  car 
pentered  was  hidden  under  a  piece  of 
57 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

fine  long-used  table-linen;  into  the 
gleaming  damask  were  wrought  clus 
ters  of  snowballs.  The  glare  of  a  plain 
glass  lamp  was  softened  by  a  too  costly 
silk  shade.  Over  the  rim  of  a  common 
vase  hung  a  few  daffodils,  too  costly 
daffodils.  The  supper,  frugal  to  a  bar 
gain,  tempted  the  eye  and  the  appetite 
by  the  good  sense  with  which  it  had 
been  chosen  and  prepared.  Thus  the 
whole  scene  betokened  human  nature  at 
bay  but  victorious  in  the  presence  of  that 
wolf,  whose  near-by  howl  startles  the 
poor  out  of  their  sleep. 

Into  this  empty  room  sounds  pene 
trated  through  a  door.  They  proceeded 
from  piano-keys  evidently  so  old  that 
one  wondered  whether  possibly  they  had 
not  begun  to  be  played  on  in  the  days  of 
Beethoven,  whether  they  were  not  such 
as  were  new  on  the  clavichord  of  Bach. 
The  fingers  that  pressed  them  were  un- 

58 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

mistakably  those  of  a  child.  As  the 
hands  wandered  up  and  down  the  key 
board,  the  ear  now  and  then  took  notice 
of  a  broken  string.  There  were  many 
of  these  broken  strings.  The  instru 
ment  plainly  announced  itself  to  be  a 
remote,  well-nigh  mythical  ancestor  of 
the  modern  piano,  preternaturally  lin 
gering  on  amid  an  innumerable  deafen 
ing  progeny.  It  suggested  a  superan 
nuated  human  being  whose  loudest 
utterances  have  sunk  to  ghostly  whis 
pers  in  a  corner. 

Once  the  wandering  hands  stopped 
and  a  voice  was  heard.  It  sounded  as 
though  pitched  to  reach  some  one  in  an 
inner  room  farther  away,  possibly  a  per 
son  who  might  just  have  passed  from  a 
kitchen  to  a  bedroom  to  make  some 
change  of  dress.  It  was  a  very  affec 
tionate  voice,  very  true  and  sweet,  very 
tender,  very  endearing. 
59 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Another  string  snapped  to-day. 
There 's  another  key  silent.  There 
won't  be  any  but  silent  keys  soon/7 

There  must  have  been  a  reply.  Re 
sponding  to  it,  the  voice  at  the  piano 
sounded  again,  this  time  very  loyal  and 
devoted  to  an  object  closer  at  hand: 

"But  when  we  do  get  a  better  one,  we 
won't  kick  the  old  one  down-stairs.  It 
has  done  its  best." 

Whereupon  the  musical  ancestor  was 
encouraged  to  speak  up  again  while  he 
had  a  chance,  being  a  very  honored  an 
cestor  and  not  by  any  means  dead  in 
some  regions.  Soon,  however,  the  voice 
pleaded  anew  with  a  kind  of  patient  im 
patience  : 

"I  'm  awfully  hungry.  Are  n't  you 
nearly  ready?" 

The  reply  could  not  be  heard. 

"Are  you  putting  on  the  dress  /  like  ?" 

The  reply  was  not  heard. 
60 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Don't  you  want  me  to  bring  you  a 
daffodil  to  wear  at  your  throat?" 

The  reply  was  lost.  For  a  few  min 
utes  the  progenitor  emptied  his  ancient 
lungs  of  some  further  moribund  intima 
tions  of  tone.  Later  came  another  pro 
test,  truly  plaintive : 

"You  could  n't  look  any  nicer !  I  'm 
awfully  hungry !" 

Then  all  at  once  there  was  a  tremen 
dous  smash  on  the  keys,  a  joyous  smash, 
and  a  moment  afterward  the  door  was 
softly  opened. 

Mother  and  son  entered  the  supper- 
room.  One  of  his  arms  was  around  her 
waist,  one  of  hers  enfolded  him  about 
the  neck  and  shoulders;  they  were 
laughing  as  they  clung  to  one  another. 

The  teacher  of  the  portrait  class  and 

his  pupils  would  hardly  have  recognized 

their  model ;  the  stranger  on  the  hillside 

might  not  at  once  have  identified  the 

61 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

newsboy.  For  model  and  newsboy, 
having  laid  aside  the  masks  of  the  day 
which  so  often  in  l^ew  York  persons  find 
it  necessary  to  wear, — the  tragic  mask, 
the  comic  mask,  the  callous,  coarse, 
brutal  mask,  the  mask  of  the  human 
pack,  the  mask  of  the  human  sty, — 
model  and  newsboy  reappeared  at  home 
with  each  other  as  nearly  what  in  truth 
they  were  as  the  denials  of  life  would 
allow. 

There  entered  the  room  a  woman  of 
high  breeding,  with  a  certain  Pallas-like 
purity  and  energy  of  face,  clasping  to 
her  side  her  only  child,  a  son  whom  she 
secretly  believed  to  be  destined  to  great 
ness.  She  was  dressed  not  with  the 
studied  plainness  and  abnegation  of  the 
model  in  the  studio,  but  out  of  regard 
for  her  true  station  and  her  motherly 
responsibilities.  Her  utmost  wish  was 
that  in  years  to  come,  when  he  should 
62 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

look  back  upon  his  childhood,  he  would 
always  remember  with  pride  his  even 
ings  with  his  mother.  During  the  day 
he  must  see  her  drudge,  and  many  a  pic 
ture  of  herself  on  a  plane  of  life  below 
her  own  she  knew  to  be  fastened  to  his 
growing  brain ;  but  as  nearly  as  possible 
blotting  these  out,  daily  blotting  them 
out  one  by  one,  must  be  the  evening  pic 
tures  when  the  day's  work  was  done,  its 
disguises  dropped,  its  humiliations  over, 
and  she,  a  serving-woman  of  fate,  reap 
peared  before  him  in  the  lineaments 
of  his  mother,  to  remain  with  him 
throughout  his  life  as  the  supreme 
woman  of  the  human  race,  his  idol  until 
death,  his  mother. 

She  now  looked  worthy  of  such  an 
ideal.  But  it  was  upon  him  that  her 
heart  lavished  every  possible  extrava 
gance  when  nightly  he  had  laid  aside  the 
coarse  half-ragged  fighting  clothes  of 
63 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

the  streets.  In  those  after  years  when 
he  was  to  gaze  backward  across  a  long 
distance,  he  must  be  made  to  realize  that 
when  he  was  a  little  fellow,  it  was  his 
mother  who  first  had  seen  his  star  while 
it  was  still  low  on  the  horizon ;  and  that 
from  the  beginning  she  had  so  reared 
him  that  there  would  be  stamped  upon 
his  attention  the  gentleness  of  his  birth 
and  a  mother's  resolve  to  rear  him  in 
keeping  with  this  through  the  neediest 
hours. 

While  he  was  in  his  bath,  she,  as 
though  she  were  his  valet,  had  laid  out 
trim  house  shoes  and  black  stockings; 
and  as  the  spring  night  had  a  breath  of 
summer  warmth,  of  almost  Southern 
summer  warmth,  she  had  put  out  also  a 
suit  of  white  linen  knickerbockers. 
Under  his  broad  sailor  collar  she  herself 
had  tied  a  big,  soft,  flowing  black  ribbon 
of  the  finest  silk.  Above  this  rose  the 
64 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

solid  head  looking  like  a  sphere  on  a  col 
umn  of  triumph,  with  its  lustrous 
bronzed  hair,  which,  as  she  brushed  it, 
she  had  tenderly  stroked  with  her  hands ; 
often  kissing  the  bronzed  face  ardent 
and  friendly  to  the  world  and  thinking 
to  herself  of  the  double  blue  in  his  eyes, 
the  old  Saxon  blue  of  battle  and  the  old 
Saxon  blue  of  the  minstrel,  also. 

It  was  the  evening  meal  that  always 
brought  them  together  after  the  separa 
tion  of  the  day,  and  he  was  at  once  curi 
ous  to  hear  how  everything  had  gone 
at  the  art  school.  With  some  un 
sold  papers  under  his  arm  he  had  walked 
with  her  to  the  entrance,  a  new  pang  in 
his  breast  about  her  that  he  did  not  un 
derstand:  for  one  thing  she  looked  so 
plain,  so  common.  At  the  door-step 
she  had  stopped  and  kissed  him  and 
bade  him  good-by.  Her  quiet  quiver 
ing  words  were: 

6s 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Go  home,  dear,  by  way  of  the  cathe 
dral." 

If  he  took  the  more  convenient 
route,  it  would  lead  him  into  one  of  the 
city's  main  cross  streets,  beset  with  dan 
gers.  She  would  be  able  to  sit  more  at 
peace  through  those  hours  of  posing  if 
she  could  know  that  he  had  gone  across 
the  cathedral  grounds  and  then  across 
the  park  as  along  a  country  road  bor 
dered  with  young  grass  and  shrubs  in 
bloom  and  forest  trees  in  early  leaf. 
She  wished  to  keep  all  day  before  her 
eyes  the  picture  of  him  as  straying  that 
April  morning  along  such  a  country  road 
— sometimes  the  road  of  faint  far  girl 
hood  memories  to  her. 

Then  with  a  great  incomprehensible 
look  she  had  vanished  from  him.  But 
before  the  doors  closed,  he,  peering  past 
her,  had  caught  sight  of  the  walls 
inside  thickly  hung  with  portraits  of 
66 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

men  and  women  in  rich  colors  and  in 
golden  frames.  Into  this  splendid 
world  his  mother  had  vanished,  herself 
to  be  painted. 

Now  as  he  began  ravenously  to  eat 
his  supper  he  wished  to  hear  all  about  it. 
She  told  him.  Part  of  her  experience 
she  kept  back,  a  true  part ;  the  other,  no 
less  true,  she  described.  With  deft  fin 
gers  she  went  over  the  somberly  woven 
web  of  the  hours,  and  plucking  here  a 
bright  thread  and  there  a  bright  thread, 
rewove  these  into  a  smaller  picture,  on 
which  fell  the  day's  far-separated  sun 
beams;  the  rays  \vere  condensed  now 
and  made  a  solid  brightness. 

This  is  how  she  painted  for  him  a 
bright  picture  out  of  things  not  many 
of  which  were  bright.  The  teacher  of 
the  portrait  class,  to  begin,  had  been 
very  considerate.  He  had  arranged 
that  she  should  leave  her  things  with  the 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

janitor's  wife  down-stairs,  and  not  go 
up-stairs  and  take  them  off  behind  some 
screens  in  a  corner  of  the  room  where 
the  class  was  assembled.  That  would 
have  been  dreadful,  to  have  to  go  behind 
the  screens  to  take  off  her  hat  and 
gloves.  Then  instead  of  sending  word 
for  her  to  come  up,  he  himself  had 
come  down.  As  he  led  the  way  past 
the  confusing  halls  and  studios,  he  had 
looked  back  over  his  shoulder  just  a 
little,  to  let  her  know  that  not  for  a 
moment  did  he  lose  thought  of  her.  To 
have  walked  in  front  of  her,  looking 
straight  ahead,  might  have  meant  that 
he  esteemed  her  a  person  of  no  conse 
quence.  A  master  so  walks  before  a 
servant,  a  superior  before  an  inferior. 
Out  of  respect  for  her,  he  had  even  less 
ened  the  natural  noisiness  of  his  feet 
on  the  bare  floor.  If  you  put  your  feet 
down  hard  in  the  ho'use,  it  means  that 
68 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

you  are  thinking  of  yourself  and  not  of 
other  people.  He  had  mounted  the 
stairs  slowly  lest  she  get  out  of  breath  as 
she  climbed.  When  he  preceded  her 
into  the  presence  of  the  class,  he  had 
turned  as  though  he  introduced  to  them 
his  own  mother.  In  everything  he  did 
he  was  really  a  man;  that  is,  a  gentle 
man.  For  being  a  gentleman  is  being 
really  a  man;  if  you  are  really  a  man, 
you  are  a  gentleman. 

As  for  the  members  of  the  class,  they 
had  been  beautiful  in  their  treatment  of 
her.  Not  a  word  had  been  exchanged 
with  them,  but  she  could  feel  their  beau 
tiful  thoughts.  Sometimes  when  she 
glanced  at  them,  while  they  worked, 
such  beautiful  expressions  rested  on 
their  faces.  Unconsciously  their  na 
tures  had  opened  like  young  flowers,  and 
as  at  the  hearts  of  young  flowers  there 
is  for  each  a  clear  drop  of  honey,  so  in 
69 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

each  of  their  minds  there  must  have  been 
one  same  thought,  the  remembrance  of 
their  mothers.  Altogether  it  was  as 
though  they  were  assembled  there  in 
honor  of  her,  not  to  make  use  of  her. 

As  to  posing  itself,  one  had  not  a 
thing  to  do  but  sit  perfectly  still! 
One  got  such  a  good  rest  from  being  too 
much  on  one's  feet!  And  they  had 
placed  for  her  such  a  splendid  carved- 
oak  chair !  When  she  took  her  seat,  all 
at  once  she  had  felt  as  if  at  home  again. 
There  were  immense  windows;  she  had 
had  all  the  fresh  air  she  wished,  and  she 
did  enjoy  fresh  air!  The  whole  roof 
was  a  window,  and  she  could  look  out 
at  the  sky:  sometimes  the  loveliest 
clouds  drifted  over,  and  sometimes  the 
dearest  little  bird  flew  past,  no  doubt  on 
its  way  to  the  park.  Last,  but  not  least, 
she  had  not  been  crowded.  In  New 
York  it  was  almost  impossible  to  secure 
70 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

a  good  seat  in  a  public  place  without 
being  nudged  or  bumped  or  crowded. 
But  that  had  actually  happened  to  her. 
She  had  had  a  delightful  chair  in  a 
public  place,  with  plenty  of  room  in 
every  direction.  How  fortunate  at  last 
to  remember  that  she  might  pose!  It 
would  fit  in  perfectly  at  times  when  she 
did  not  have  to  go  out  for  needlework 
or  for  the  other  demands.  Dollars 
would  now  soon  begin  to  be  brought  in 
like  their  bits  of  coal,  by  the  scuttleful ! 
And  then  the  piano!  And  then  the 
teacher  and  the  lessons !  And  then,  and 
then — 

Her  happy  story  ended.  She  had 
watched  the  play  of  lights  on  his  face  as 
sometimes  he,  though  hungry,  with  fork 
in  the  air  paused  to  listen  and  to  ques 
tion.  Now  as  she  finished  and  looked 
across  the  table  at  the  picture  of  him 
under  the  lamplight,  she  was  rewarded, 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

she  was  content;  while  he  ate  his  plain 
food,  out  of  her  misfortunes  she  had 
beautifully  nourished  his  mind.  He 
did  not  know  this ;  but  she  knew  it,  knew 
by  his  look  and  by  his  only  comment : 

"You  had  a  perfectly  splendid  time, 
did  n't  you?" 

She  laughed  to  herself. 

"Now,  then,"  she  said,  coming  to 
what  had  all  along  been  most  in  her 
consciousness — "now,  then,  tell  me 
about  your  day.  Begin  at  the  moment 
you  left  me." 

He  laid  down  his  napkin, — he  could 
eat  no  more,  and  there  was  nothing 
more  to  eat, — and  he  folded  his  hands 
quite  like  the  head  of  the  house  at  ease 
after  a  careless  feast,  and  began  his 
story. 

Well,  he  had  had  a  splendid  day,  too. 
After  he  had  left  her  he  had  gone  to 
the  dealer's  on  the  avenue  with  the  un- 
72 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

sold  papers.  Then  he  had  crossed  over 
to  the  cathedral,  and  for  a  while  had 
watched  the  men  at  work  up  in  the  air. 
He  had  walked  around  to  the  choir 
school,  but  no  one  was  there  that  morn 
ing,  not  a  sound  came  from  the  inside. 
Then  he  had  started  down  across  the 
park.  As  he  sat  do\vn  to  count  his 
money,  a  man  who  had  climbed  up  the 
hill-side  stopped  and  asked  him  a  great 
many  questions :  who  taught  him  music 
and  whether  any  one  had  ever  heard  him 
sing.  This  stranger  also  liked  music 
and  he  also  went  to  the  cathedral,  so  he 
claimed.  From  that  point  the  story 
wound  its  way  onward  across  the  busy 
hours  till  nightfall. 

It  was  a  child's  story,  not  an  older 
person's.  Therefore  it  did  not  draw  the 
line  between  pleasant  and  unpleasant, 
fair  and  unfair,  right  and  wrong,  which 
make  up  for  each  of  us  the  history  of 
73 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

our  checkered  human  day.  It  separated 
life  as  a  swimmer  separates  the  sea: 
there  is  one  water  which  he  parts  by 
his  passage.  So  the  child,  who  is  still 
wholly  a  child,  divides  the  world. 

But  as  she  pondered,  she  discrimi 
nated.  Out  of  the  long,  rambling  nar 
rative  she  laid  hold  of  one  overwhelm 
ing  incident,  forgetting  the  rest :  a  pass 
ing  stranger,  hearing  a  few  notes  of  his 
voice,  had  stopped  to  question  him  about 
it.  To  her  this  was  the  first  outside  evi 
dence  that  her  faith  in  his  musical  gift 
was  not  groundless. 

When  he  had  ended  his  story  she  re 
garded  him  across  the  table  with  some 
thing  new  in  her  eyes — something  of 
awe.  She  had  never  hinted  to  him 
what  she  believed  he  would  some  day 
be.  She  might  be  wrong,  and  thus 
might  start  him  on  the  wrong  course; 
or,  being  right,  she  might  never  have  the 
74 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

chance  to  start  him  on  the  right  one. 
In  either  case  she  might  be  bringing  to 
him  disappointment,  perhaps  the  failure 
of  his  whole  life. 

Now  she  still  hid  the  emotion  his  story 
caused.  But  the  stranger  of  the  park 
had  kindled  within  her  that  night  what 
she  herself  had  long  tended  unlit — the 
alabaster  flame  of  worship  which  the 
mother  burns  before  the  altar  of  a  great 
son. 

An  hour  later  they  were  in  another 
small  attic-like  space  next  to  the  supper- 
room.  Here  was  always  the  best  of 
their  evening.  No  matter  how  poor  the 
spot,  if  there  reach  it  some  solitary  ray 
of  the  great  light  of  the  world,  let  it 
be  called  your  drawing-room.  Where 
civilization  sends  its  beams  through  a 
roof,  there  be  your  drawing-room. 
This  part  of  the  garret  was  theirs. 

In  one  corner  stood  a  small  table  on 
75 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

which  were  some  tantalizing  books  and 
the  same  lamp.  Another  corner  was 
filled  by  the  littlest,  oldest  imaginable  of 
six-octave  pianos,  the  mythical  piano 
ancestor ;  on  it  were  piled  some  yellowed 
folios,  her  music  once.  Thus  two  dif 
ferent  rays  of  civilization  entered  their 
garret  and  fell  upon  the  twin  mountain- 
peaks  of  the  night — books  and  music. 

Toward  these  she  wished  regularly  to 
lead  him  as  darkness  descended  over  the 
illimitable  city  and  upon  its  weary 
grimy  battle-fields.  She  liked  him  to 
fall  asleep  on  one  or  the  other  of  these 
mountain-tops.  When  he  awoke,  it 
would  be  as  from  a  mountain  that  he 
would  see  the  dawn.  From  there  let 
him  come  down  to  the  things  that  won 
the  day;  but  at  night  back  again  to 
things  that  win  life. 

They  were  in  their  drawing-room, 
then,  as  she  had  taught  him  to  call  it, 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

and  she  was  reading  to  him.  A  knock 
interrupted  her.  She  interrogated  the 
knock  doubtfully  to  herself  for  a  mo 
ment. 

"Ashby,"  she  finally  said,  turning  her 
eyes  toward  the  door,  as  a  request  that 
he  open  it. 

The  janitor  of  the  building  handed  in 
a  card.  The  name  on  the  card  was 
strange  to  her,  and  she  knew  no  reason 
why  a  stranger  should  call.  Then  a 
foolish  uneasiness  attacked  her:  per 
haps  this  unwelcome  visit  bore  upon  her 
engagement  at  the  studio.  They  might 
not  wish  her  to  return ;  that  little  door  to 
a  larger  income  was  to  be  shut  in  their 
faces.  Perhaps  she  had  made  herself 
too  plain.  If  only  she  had  done  herself 
a  little  more  justice  in  her  appearance! 

She  addressed  the  janitor  with  anx 
ious  courtesy: 

"Will  you  ask  him  to  come  up?" 
77 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

With  her  hand  on  the  half-open  door, 
she  waited.  If  it  should  be  some  trades 
man,  she  would  speak  with  him  there. 
She  listened.  Up  the  steps,  from  flight 
to  flight,  she  could  hear  the  feet  of  a  man 
mounting  like  a  deliberate  good  walker. 
He  reached  her  floor.  He  approached 
her  door  and  she  stepped  out  to  con 
front  him.  A  gentleman  stood  before 
her  with  an  unmistakable  air  of  feeling 
himself  happy  in  his  mission.  For  a 
moment  he  forgot  to  state  this  mission, 
startled  by  the  group  of  the  two.  His 
eyes  passed  from  one  to  the  other:  the 
picture  they  made  was  an  unlocked  for 
revelation  of  life's  harmony,  of  nature's 
sacredness. 

"Is  this  Mrs.  Truesdale?"  he  asked 
with  appreciative  deference. 

She  stepped  back. 

"I  am  Mrs.  Truesdale,"  she  replied  in 
a  way  to  remind  him  of  his  intrusion; 
73 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

and  not  discourteously  she  partly  closed 
the  door  and  waited  for  him  to  with 
draw.  But  he  was  not  of  a  mind  to 
withdraw;  on  the  contrary,  he  stood 
stoutly  where  he  was  and  explained : 

"As  I  crossed  the  park  this  morning 
I  happened  to  hear  a  few  notes  of  a 
voice  that  interested  me.  I  train  the 
voice,  Madam.  I  teach  certain  kinds  of 
music.  I  took  the  liberty  of  asking  the 
owner  of  the  voice  where  he  lived, 
and  I  have  taken  the  further  liberty 
of  coming  to  see  whether  I  may  speak 
with  you  on  that  subject — about  his 


voice." 


This,  then,  was  the  stranger  of  the 
park  whom  she  believed  to  have  gone  his 
way  after  unknowingly  leaving  glorious 
words  of  destiny  for  her.  Instead  of 
vanishing,  he  had  reappeared,  following 
up  his  discovery  into  her  very  presence. 
She  did  not  desire  him  to  follow  up  his 
79 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

discovery.  She  put  out  one  hand  and 
pressed  her  son  back  into  the  room  and 
was  about  to  close  the  door. 

"I  should  first  have  stated,  of  course," 
said  the  visitor,  smiling  quietly  as  with 
awkward  self -recovery,  "that  I  am  the 
choir-master  of  the  Cathedral  of  St. 
John  the  Divine." 

Stillness  followed,  the  stillness  in 
which  painful  misunderstandings  dis 
solve.  The  scene  slowly  changed,  as 
when  on  the  dark  stage  of  a  theater  an 
invisible  light  is  gradually  turned,  show 
ing  everything  in  its  actual  relation  to 
everything  else.  In  truth  a  shaft  as  of 
celestial  light  suddenly  fell  upon  her 
doorway;  a  far-sent  radiance  rested  on 
the  head  of  her  son ;  in  her  ears  began  to 
sound  old  words  spoken  ages  ago  to 
another  mother  on  account  of  him  she 
had  borne.  To  her  it  was  an  annuncia 
tion. 

80 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

Her  first  act  was  to  place  her  hand  on 
the  head  of  the  lad  and  bend  it  back  un 
til  his  eyes  looked  up  into  hers;  his 
mother  must  be  the  first  to  congratu 
late  him  and  to  catch  from  his  eyes  their 
flash  of  delight  as  he  realized  all  that 
this  might  mean :  the  fulfilment  of  life's 
dream  for  him. 

Then  she  threw  open  the  door. 

"Will  you  come  in?" 

It  was  a  marvelous  welcome,  a  splen 
dor  of  spiritual  hospitality. 

The  musician  took  up  straightway  the 
purpose  of  his  visit  and  stated  it. 

"Will  you,  then,  send  him  to-morrow 
and  let  me  try  his  voice?" 

"Yes/'  she  said  as  one  who  now  must 
direct  with  firm  responsible  hand  the 
helm  of  wayward  genius,  "I  will  send 
him." 

"And  if  his  voice  should  prove  to  be 
what  is  wanted,"  continued  the  music- 
Si 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

master,  though  with  delicate  hesitancy, 
"would  he  be — free?  Is  there  any 
other  person  whose  consent — " 

She  could  not  reply  at  once.  The 
question  brought  up  so  much  of  the  past, 
such  tragedy!  She  spoke  with  com 
posure  at  last : 

"He  can  come.  He  is  free.  He  is 
mine — wholly  mine." 

The  choir-master  looked  across  the 
small  room  at  his  pupil,  who,  upon  the 
discovery  of  the  visitor's  identity,  had 
withdrawn  as  far  as  possible  from  him. 

"And  you  are  willing  to  come?"  he 
asked,  wishing  to  make  the  first  ad 
vance  toward  possible  acquaintanceship 
on  the  new  footing. 

No  reply  came.  The  mother  smiled 
at  her  awe-stricken  son  and  hastened  to 
his  rescue. 

"He  is  overwhelmed,"  she  said,  her 
own  faith  in  him  being  merely  strength- 
82 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

ened  by  this  revelation  of  his  fright. 
"He  is  overwhelmed.  This  means  so 
much  more  to  him  than  you  can  under 
stand." 

"But  you  will  come?"  the  choir-mas 
ter  persisted  in  asking.  "  You  will 
come?" 

The  lad  stirred  uneasily  on  his  chair. 

"Yes,  sir,"  he  said  all  but  inaudi- 
bly. 

His  inquisitive,  interesting  friend  of 
the  park  path,  then,  was  himself  choir 
master  of  St.  John's!  And  he  had 
asked  him  whether  he  knew  anything 
about  the  cathedral !  Whether  he  liked 
music !  Whether  he  knew  how  boys  got 
into  the  school!  He  had  betrayed  his 
habit  of  idly  hanging  about  the  old 
building  where  the  choir  practised  and 
of  singing  with  them  to  show  what  he 
could  do  and  would  do  if  he  had  the 
chance;  and  because  he  could  not  keep 
83 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

from  singing.  He  had  called  one  of 
the  Apostles  Jim !  And  another  Apos 
tle  Pete !  He  had  rejoiced  that  Gabriel 
had  not  been  strong  enough  to  stand  up 
in  a  high  wind ! 

Thus  with  mortification  he  remem 
bered  the  day.  Then  his  thoughts  were 
swept  on  to  what  now  opened  before 
him :  he  was  to  be  taken  into  the  choir, 
he  was  to  sing  in  the  cathedral.  The 
high,  blinding,  stately  magnificence  of 
its  scenes  and  processions  lay  before 
him. 

More  than  this.  The  thing  which 
had  long  been  such  a  torture  of  desire 
to  him,  the  hope  that  had  grown  within 
him  until  it  began  to  burst  open,  had 
come  true;  his  dream  was  a  reality:  he 
was  to  begin  to  learn  music,  he  was  to 
go  where  it  was  being  taught.  And  the 
master  who  was  to  take  him  by  the  hand 
and  lead  him  into  that  world  of  song 
84 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

sat  there  quietly  talking  with  his  mother 
about  the  matter  and  looking  across  at 
him,  studying  him  closely. 

No;  none  of  this  was  true  yet.  It 
might  never  be  true.  First,  he  must  be 
put  to  the  test.  The  man  smiling  there 
\vas  sternly  going  to  draw  out  of  him 
what  was  in  him.  He  was  going  to  ex 
amine  him  and  see  what  he  amounted 
to.  And  if  he  amounted  to  nothing, 
then  what  ? 

He  sat  there  shy,  silent,  afraid,  all  the 
hardy  boldness  and  business  prepared 
ness  and  fighting  capacity  of  the  streets 
gone  out  of  his  mind  and  heart.  He 
looked  across  at  his  mother;  not  even 
she  could  help  him. 

So  there  settled  upon  him  that  terror 
of  uncertainty  about  their  gift  and 
their  fate  which  is  known  only  to  the 
children  of  genius.  For  throughout 
the  region  of  art,  as  in  the  world  of  the 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

physical,  nature  brings  forth  all  things 
from  the  seat  of  sensitiveness  and  the 
young  of  both  worlds  appear  on  the 
rough  earth  unready. 

"You  do  wish  to  come?"  the  choir 
master  persisted  in  asking. 

"Yes,  sir/'  he  replied  barely,  as 
though  the  words  sealed  his  fate. 

The  visitor  was  gone,  and  they  had 
talked  everything  over,  and  the  evening 
had  ended,  and  it  was  long  past  his  bed 
time,  and  she  waited  for  him  to  come 
from  the  bedroom  and  say  good  night. 
Presently  he  ran  in,  climbed  into  her  lap, 
threw  his  arms  around  her  neck  and 
pressed  his  cheek  against  hers. 

"Now  on  this  side,"  he  said,  holding 
her  tightly,  "and  now  on  the  other  side, 
and  now  on  both  sides  and  all  around." 

She,  with  jealous  pangs  at  this  good 
night  hour,  often  thought  already  of 
86 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

what  a  lover  he  would  be  when  the  time 
came — the  time  for  her  to  be  pushed 
aside,  to  drop  out.  These  last  mo 
ments  of  every  night  were  for  love; 
nothing  lived  in  him  but  love.  She  said 
to  herself  that  he  was  the  born  lover. 

As  he  now  withdrew  his  arms,  he  sat 
looking  into  her  eyes  with  his  face  close 
to  hers.  Then  leaning  over,  he  began 
to  measure  his  face  upon  her  face,  start 
ing  with  the  forehead,  and  being  very 
particular  when  he  got  to  the  long  eye 
lashes,  then  coming  down  past  the  nose. 
They  were  very  silly  and  merry  about 
the  measuring  of  the  noses.  The  noses 
would  not  fit  the  one  upon  the  other, 
not  being  flat  enough.  He  began  to 
indulge  his  mischievous,  teasing 
mood: 

"Suppose  he  does  n't  like  my  voice !" 

She  laughed  the  idea  to  scorn. 

"Suppose  he  would  n't  take  me!" 
87 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Ah,  but  he  will  take  you." 

"If  he  would  n't  have  me,  you  Jd 
never  want  to  see  me  any  more,  would 
you?" 

She  strained  him  to  her  heart  and 
rocked  to  and  fro  over  him. 

"This  is  what  I  could  most  have 
wished  in  all  the  world,"  she  said,  hold 
ing  him  at  arm's-length  with  idola- 
try. 

"Not  more  than  a  fine  house  and  serv 
ants  and  a  greenhouse  and  a  carriage 
and  horses  and  a  new  piano — not  more 
than  everything  you  used  to  have!" 

"More  than  anything!  More  than 
anything  in  this  world!" 

He  returned  to  the  teasing. 

"If  he  does  n't  take  me,  I  'm  going  to 
run  away.  You  won't  want  ever  to  see 
me  any  more.  And  then  nobody  will 
ever  know  what  becomes  of  me  because 
I  could  n't  sing." 

88 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

She  strained  him  again  to  herself 
and  murmured  over  him : 

"My  chorister!  My  minstrel!  My 
life!" 

"Good  night  and  pleasant  dreams!" 
he  said,  with  his  arms  around  her  neck 
finally.  "Good  night  and  sweet  sleep!" 

Everything  was  quiet.  She  had 
tipped  to  his  bedside  and  stood  looking 
at  him  after  slumber  had  carried  him 
away  from  her,  a  little  distance  away. 

"My  heavenly  guest !"  she  murmured. 
"My  guest  from  the  singing  stars  of 
God!" 

Though  worn  out  with  the  strain  and 
excitements  of  the  day,  she  was  not  yet 
ready  for  sleep.  She  must  have  the 
luxuries  of  consciousness;  she  must 
tread  the  roomy  spaces  of  reflection  and 
be  soothed  in  their  largeness.  And  so 
she  had  gone  to  her  windows  and  had 

89 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

remained  there  for  a  long  time  looking 
out  upon  the  night. 

The  street  beneath  was  dimly  lighted. 
Traffic  had  almost  ceased.  Now  and 
then  a  car  sped  past.  The  thorough 
fare  along  here  is  level  and  broad  and 
smooth,  and  being  skirted  on  one  side 
by  the  park,  it  offers  to  speeding  vehicles 
the  illusive  freedom  of  a  country  road. 
Across  the  street  at  the  foot  of  the  park 
a  few  lights  gleamed  scant  amid  the 
April  foliage.  She  began  at  the  foot  of 
the  hill  and  followed  the  line  of  them 
upward,  upward  over  the  face  of  the 
rock,  leading  this  way  and  that  way,  but 
always  upward.  There  on  the  height  in 
the  darkness  loomed  the  cathedral. 

Often  during  the  trouble  and  discour 
agement  of  years  it  had  seemed  to  her 
that  her  own  life  and  every  other  life 
would  have  had  more  meaning  if  only 
there  had  been,  away  off  somewhere  in 
90 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

the  universe,  a  higher  evil  intelligence 
to  look  on  and  laugh,  to  laugh  piti 
lessly  at  every  human  thing.  She  had 
held  on  to  her  faith  because  she  must 
hold  on  to  something,  and  she  had  noth 
ing  else.  Now  as  she  stood  there,  fol 
lowing  the  winding  night  road  over  the 
rock,  her  thoughts  went  back  and 
searched  once  more  along  the  wander 
ing  pathway  of  her  years ;  and  she  said 
that  a  Power  greater  than  any  earthly 
had  led  her  with  her  son  to  the  hidden 
goal  of  them  both,  the  cathedral. 

The  next  day  brought  no  disappoint 
ment  :  he  had  rushed  home  and  thrown 
himself  into  her  arms  and  told  her  that 
he  was  accepted.  He  was  to  sing  in  the 
choir.  The  hope  had  become  an  actual- 
ity. 

Later  that  day  the  choir-master  him 
self  had  called  again  to  speak  to  her 
when  the  pupil  was  not  present.  He 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

was  guarded  in  his  words  but  could  not 
conceal  the  enthusiasm  of  his  mood. 

"I  do  not  know  what  it  may  develop 
into/'  he  said, — "that  is  something  we 
cannot  foretell, — but  I  believe  it  will  be 
a  great  voice  in  the  world.  I  do  know 
that  it  will  be  a  wonderful  voice  for  the 
choir." 

She  stood  before  him  mute  with  emo 
tion.  She  was  as  dry  sand  drinking  a 
shower. 

"You  have  made  no  mistake,"  she 
said.  "It  is  a  great  voice  and  he  will 
have  a  great  career." 

The  choir-master  was  impatient  to 
have  the  lessons  begin.  She  asked  for 
a  few  days  to  get  him  in  readiness.  She 
reflected  that  he  could  not  make  his 
first  appearance  at  the  choir  school 
in  white  linen  knickerbockers.  These 
were  the  only  suitable  clothes  he  had. 

This  school  would  be  his  first,  for  she 
92 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

had  taught  him  at  home,  haunted  by  a 
sense  of  responsibility  that  he  must  be 
specially  guarded.  Now  just  as  the  un 
safe  years  came  on  for  him,  he  would  be 
safe  in  that  fold.  When  natural 
changes  followed  as  follow  they  must 
and  his  voice  broke  later  on,  and  then 
came  again  or  never  came  again,  what 
ever  afterward  befell,  behind  would  be 
the  memories  of  his  childhood.  And 
when  he  had  grown  to  full  manhood, 
when  he  was  an  old  man  and  she  no  lon 
ger  with  him,  wherever  on  the  earth  he 
might  work  or  might  wander,  always  he 
would  be  going  back  to  those  years  in 
the  cathedral:  they  would  be  his  safe 
guard,  his  consecration  to  the  end. 

Now  a  few  days  later  she  stood  in  the 
same  favorite  spot,  at  her  windows ;  and 
it  was  her  favorite  hour  to  be  there,  the 
coming  on  of  twilight. 
95 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

All  day  until  nearly  sundown  a  cold 
April  rain  had  fallen.  These  contra 
dictory  spring  days  of  young  green  and 
winter  cold  the  pious  folk  of  older  lands 
and  ages  named  the  days  of  the  ice 
saints.  They  really  fall  in  May,  but 
this  had  been  like  one  of  them.  So  raw 
and  chill  had  been  the  atmosphere  of 
the  grateless  garret  that  the  window- 
frames  had  been  fastened  down,  their 
rusty  catches  clamped. 

At  the  window  she  stood  looking  out 
and  looking  up  toward  a  scene  of  splen 
dor  in  the  heavens. 

It  was  sunset,  the  rain  was  over,  the 
sky  had  cleared.  She  had  been  tracing 
the  retreating  line  of  sunlight  on  the 
hillside  opposite.  First  it  crossed  the 
street  to  the  edge  of  the  park,  then 
crossed  the  wet  grass  at  the  foot  of  the 
slope;  then  it  passed  upward  over  the 
bowed  dripping  shrubbery  and  lingered 
94 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

on  the  tree-tops  along  the  crest;  and 
now  the  western  sky  was  aflame  behind 
the  cathedral. 

It  was  a  gorgeous  spectacle.  The 
cathedral  seemed  not  to  be  situated  in 
the  city,  not  lodged  on  the  rocks  of  the 
island,  but  to  be  risen  out  of  infinite 
space  and  to  be  based  and  to  abide  on 
the  eternity  of  light.  Long  she  gazed 
into  that  sublime  vision,  full  of  happi 
ness  at  last,  full  of  peace,  full  of  prayer. 

Standing  thus  at  her  windows  at  that 
hour,  she  stood  on  the  pinnacle  of  her 
life's  happiness. 

From  the  dark  slippery  street  shrill 
familiar  sounds  rose  to  her  ear  and 
drew  her  attention  downward  and  she 
smiled.  He  was  down  there  at  play 
with  friends  whose  parents  lived  in  the 
houses  of  the  row.  She  laughed  as 
those  victorious  cries  reached  the  upper 
air.  Leaning  forward,  she  pressed  her 
95 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

face  against  the  window-pane  and 
peered  over  and  watched  the  group  of 
them.  Sometimes  she  could  see  them 
and  sometimes  not  as  they  struggled 
from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other. 
No  one,  whether  younger  or  older, 
stronger  or  weaker,  was  ever  defeated 
down  there ;  everybody  at  some  time  got 
worsted;  no  one  was  ever  defeated. 
All  the  whipped  remained  conquerors. 
Unconquerable  childhood!  She  said  to 
herself  that  she  must  learn  a  lesson 
from  it  once  more — to  have  always 
within  herself  the  will  and  spirit  of  vic 
tory. 

With  her  face  still  against  the  glass 
she  caught  sight  of  something  approach 
ing  carefully  up  the  street.  It  was  the 
car  of  a  physician  who  had  a  patient  in 
one  of  the  houses  near  by.  This  was 
his  hour  to  make  his  call.  He  guided 
the  car  himself,  and  the  great  mass  of 
96 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

tons  in  weight  responded  to  his  guidance 
as  if  it  possessed  intelligence,  as  if  it  en 
tered  into  his  foresight  and  caution:  it 
became  to  her,  as  she  watched  it,  almost 
conscious,  almost  human.  She  thought 
of  it  as  being  like  some  great  characters 
in  human  life  which  need  so  little  to 
make  them  go  easily  and  make  them  go 
right.  A  wise  touch,  and  their  enor 
mous  influence  is  sent  whither  it  should 
be  sent  by  a  pressure  that  would  not 
bruise  a  leaf. 

She  chid  herself  once  more  that  in  a 
world  where  so  often  the  great  is  the 
good  she  had  too  often  been  hard  and 
bitter ;  that  many  a  time  she  had  found 
pleasure  in  setting  the  empty  cup  of  her 
life  out  under  its  clouds  and  catching  the 
showers  of  nature  as  though  they  were 
drops  of  gall. 

All  at  once  her  attention  was  riveted 
on  an  object  up  the  street.  Around  a 
97 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

bend  a  few  hundred  yards  away  a  huge 
wild  devil  of  a  thing  swung  unsteadily, 
recklessly,  almost  striking  the  curb  and 
lamp-post;  and  then,  righting  itself,  it 
came  on  with  a  rush — a  mindless  de 
stroyer.  Now  on  one  side  of  the  street, 
now  in  the  middle,  now  on  the  other 
side ;  gliding  along  through  the  twilight, 
barely  to  be  seen,  creeping  nearer  and 
nearer  through  the  shadows,  now  again 
on  the  wrong  side  of  the  street  where  it 
would  not  be  looked  for. 

A  bolt  of  horror  shot  through  her. 
She  pressed  her  face  quickly  against  the 
window-panes  as  closely  as  possible, 
searching  for  the  whereabouts  of  the 
lads.  As  she  looked,  the  playing  strug 
gling  mass  of  them  went  down  in  the 
road,  the  others  piled  on  one.  She 
thought  she  knew  which  one, — he  was 
the  strongest, — then  they  were  lost  from 
her  sight,  as  they  rolled  in  nearer  to  the 
98 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

sidewalk.  And  straight  toward  them 
rushed  that  destroyer  in  the  streets. 
She  tried  to  throw  up  the  sashes.  She 
tried  to  lean  out  and  cry  down  to  him, 
to  wave  her  hands  to  him  with  warning 
as  she  had  often  done  with  joy.  She 
could  not  raise  the  sashes.  She  had 
not  the  strength  left  to  turn  the  rusty 
bolts.  Nor  was  there  time.  She 
looked  again;  she  saw  what  was  going 
to  happen.  Then  with  frenzy  she  began 
to  beat  against  the  window-sashes  and 
to  moan  and  try  to  stifle  her  own  moans. 
And  then  shrill  startled  screams  and 
piteous  cries  came  up  to  her,  and 
crazed  now  and  no  longer  knowing  what 
she  did,  she  struck  the  window-panes 
in  her  agony  until  they  were  shat 
tered  and  she  thrust  her  arms  out 
through  them  with  a  last  blind  instinct 
to  wave  to  him,  to  reach  him,  to  drag 
him  out  of  the  way.  For  some  mo- 
99 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

ments  her  arms  hung  there  outside  the 
shattered  window-glass,  and  a  shower 
of  crimson  drops  from  her  fingers 
splashed  on  the  paving-stones  below. 
She  kept  on  waving  her  lacerated  hands 
more  and  more  feebly,  slowly ;  and  then 
they  were  drawn  inward  after  her  body 
which  dropped  unconscious  to  the  gar 
ret  floor. 


100 


IV 

IT  was  a  gay  scene  over  at  the  art 
school  next  morning.  Even  before 
the  accustomed  hour  the  big  barnlike 
room,  with  a  few  prize  pictures  of  for 
mer  classes  scattered  about  the  walls, 
and  with  the  old  academy  easels  stand 
ing  about  like  a  caravan  of  patient 
camels  ever  loaded  with  new  burdens 
but  ever  traveling  the  same  ancient 
sands  of  art — even  before  nine  o'clock 
the  barnlike  room  presented  a  scene  of 
eager  healthy  animal  spirits.  On  the 
easel  of  every  youthful  worker,  nearly 
finished,  lay  the  portrait  of  the  mother. 
In  every  case  it  had  been  differently 
done,  inadequately  done ;  but  in  all  cases 
it  had  been  done.  Hardly  could  any  ob- 
101 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

server  haye  failed  to  recognize  what 
was  there  depicted.  Beyond  smearings 
and  daubings  of  paint,  as  past  the 
edges  of  concealing  clouds,  one  caught 
glimpses  of  a  serene  and  steadfast  hu 
man  radiance.  There  one  beheld  the 
familiar  image  of  that  orb  which  in  dark 
and  pathless  hours  has  through  all  ages 
been  the  guardian  light  of  the  world — 
the  mother. 

The  best  in  them  had  gone  into  the 
painting  of  this  portrait,  and  the  con 
sciousness  of  our  best  gives  us  the  sense 
of  our  power,  and  the  consciousness  of 
our  power  yields  us  our  enthusiasm; 
hence  the  exhilaration  and  energy  of 
the  studio  scene. 

The  interest  of  the  members  of  the 
class  was  not  concerned  solely  with  the 
portrait,  however;  a  larger  share  went 
to  the  model  herself.  They  had  become 
strongly  bound  to  her.  All  the  more 
1 02 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

perhaps  because  she  held  them  firmly  to 
the  understanding  that  her  life  touched 
theirs  only  at  the  point  of  the  stranger 
in  need  of  a  small  sum  of  money.  Re 
pulsed  and  baffled  in  their  wish  to  know 
her  better,  they  nevertheless  became 
aware  that  she  was  undergoing  a  won 
derful  transformation  on  her  own  ac 
count.  The  change  had  begun  after  the 
ordeal  of  the  first  morning.  When  she 
returned  for  the  second  sitting,  and  then 
at  later  sittings,  they  had  remarked  this 
change,  and  had  spoken  of  it  to  one  an 
other — that  she  was  as  a  person  into 
wrhose  life  some  joyous,  unbelievable 
event  has  fallen,  brightening  the  present 
and  the  future.  Every  day  some  old 
cloudy  care  seemed  to  loose  itself  from 
its  lurking-place  and  drift  away  from 
her  mind,  leaving  her  face  less  obscured 
and  thus  the  more  beautifully  revealed 
to  them.  Now,  with  the  end  of  the  sit- 
103 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

tings  not  far  off,  what  they  looked  for 
ward  to  with  most  regret  was  the  last 
sitting,  when  she,  leaving  her  portrait 
in  their  hands,  would  herself  vanish, 
taking  with  her  both  the  mystery  of  her 
old  sorrows  and  the  mystery  of  this  new 
happiness. 

Promptly  at  nine  o'clock  the  teacher 
of  the  class  entered,  greeted  them,  and 
glanced  around  for  the  model.  Not  see 
ing  her,  he  looked  at  his  watch,  then 
without  comment  crossed  to  the  easels, 
and  studied  again  the  progress  made  the 
previous  day,  correcting,  approving, 
guiding,  encouraging.  His  demeanor 
showed  that  he  entered  into  the  mount 
ing  enthusiasm  of  his  class  for  this  par 
ticular  piece  of  work. 

A  few  minutes  were  thus  quickly  con 
sumed.  Then,  watch  in  hand  once 
more,  he  spoke  of  the  absence  of  the 
model : 

104 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Something  seems  to  detain  the  model 
this  morning.  But  she  has  sent  me  no 
word  and  she  will  no  doubt  be  here  in  a 
few  minutes." 

He  went  back  to  the  other  end  of  the 
studio  and  sat  down,  facing  them  with 
the  impressiveness  which  belonged  to 
him  even  without  speech.  They  fixed 
their  eyes  on  him  with  the  usual  expect 
ancy.  Whenever  as  now  an  unfore 
seen  delay  occurred,  he  was  always 
prompt  to  take  advantage  of  the  inter 
val  with  a  brief  talk.  To  them  there 
were  never  enough  of  these  brief  talks, 
which  invariably  drew  human  life  into 
relationship  to  the  art  of  portraiture, 
and  set  the  one  reality  over  against 
the  other  reality — the  turbulence  of  a 
human  life  and  the  still  image  of  it 
on  the  canvas.  They  hoped  he  would 
thus  talk  to  them  now;  in  truth  he 
had  the  air  of  casting  about  in  his 
105 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

mind  for  a  theme  best  suited  to  the 
moment. 

That  mother,  now  absent,  when  she 
had  blindly  found  her  way  to  him,  ask 
ing  to  pose,  had  fallen  into  good  hands. 
He  was  a  great  teacher  and  he  was  a 
remarkable  man,  remarkable  even  to 
look  at.  Massively  built,  with  a  big 
head  of  black  hair,  olive  complexion, 
and  bluntly  pointed,  black  beard,  and 
with  a  mold  of  countenance  grave  and 
strong,  he  looked  like  a  great  Rem 
brandt;  like  some  splendid  full-length 
portrait  by  Rembrandt  painted  as  that 
master  painted  men  in  the  prime  of  his 
power.  With  the  Rembrandt  shadows 
on  him  even  in  life.  Even  when  the 
sun  beat  down  upon  him  outdoors, 
even  when  you  met  him  in  the  blaze  of 
the  city  streets,  he  seemed  not  to  have 
emerged  from  shadow,  to  bear  on  him- 
106 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

self  the  traces  of  a  human  night,  a  liv 
ing  darkness.  There  was  light  within 
him  but  it  did  not  irradiate  him. 

Once  he  had  been  a  headlong  art  stu 
dent  himself,  starting  out  to  become  a 
great  painter,  a  great  one.  After  years 
abroad  under  the  foremost  masters  and 
other  years  of  self-trial  with  every  fa 
vorable  circumstance  his,  nature  had 
one  day  pointed  her  unswerved  finger 
at  his  latest  canvas  as  at  the  earlier  ones 
and  had  judged  him  to  the  quick:  you 
will  never  be  a  great  painter.  If  you 
cannot  be  content  to  remain  less,  quit, 
stop ! 

Thus  youth's  choice  and  a  man's  half 
a  lifetime  of  effort  and  ambition  ended 
in  abandonment  of  effort  not  because  he 
was  a  failure  but  because  the  choice  of 
a  profession  had  been  a  blunder.  A 
multitude  of  men  topple  into  this  chasm 
and  crawl  out  nobody.  Few  of  them 
107 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

at  middle  age  in  the  darkness  of  that  pit 
of  failure  can  grope  within  themselves 
for  some  second  candle  and  by  it  once 
more  become  illumined  through  and 
through.  He  found  his  second  can 
dle, — it  should  have  been  his  first, — and 
he  lighted  it  and  it  became  the  light  of  his 
later  years ;  but  it  did  not  illumine  him 
completely,  it  never  dispelled  the  shad 
ows  of  the  flame  that  had  burned  out. 
What  he  did  was  this :  having  reached 
the  end  of  his  own  career  as  a  painter, 
he  turned  and  made  his  way  back  to  the 
fields  of  youth,  and  taking  his  stand  by 
that  ever  fresh  path,  always,  as  students 
would  rashly  pass  him,  he  halted  them 
like  a  wise  monitor,  describing  the  best 
way  to  travel,  warning  of  the  difficulties 
of  the  country  ahead,  but  insisting  that 
the  goal  was  worth  the  toil  and  the 
trouble;  searching  secretly  among  his 
pupils  year  after  year  for  signs  of  what 
108 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

he  was  not,  a  great  painter,  and  pouring 
out  his  sympathies  on  all  those  who,  like 
himself,  would  never  be  one. 

Now  he  sat  looking  across  at  his  class, 
the  masterful  teacher  of  them.  They 
sat  looking  responsively  at  him.  Then 
he  took  up  his  favorite  theme : 

"Your  work  on  this  portrait  is  your 
best  work,  because  the  model,  as  I  stated 
to  you  at  the  outset  would  be  the  case, 
has  called  forth  your  finer  selves;  she 
has  caused  you  to  feel.  And  she  has 
been  able  to  do  this  because  her  counte 
nance,  her  whole  being,  radiates  one  of 
the  great  passions  and  faiths  of  our 
common  humanity — the  look  of  reverent 
motherhood.  You  recognize  that  look, 
that  mood ;  you  believe  in  it ;  you  honor 
it;  you  have  worked  over  its  living 
eloquence.  Observe,  then,  the  result. 
Turn  to  your  canvases  and  see  how, 
though  proceeding  differently,  you  have 
109 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

all  dipped  your  brushes  as  in  a  common 
medium;  how  you  have  all  drawn  an 
identical  line  around  that  old-time  hu 
man  landmark.  You  have  in  truth  cop 
ied  from  her  one  of  the  great  beacon- 
lights  of  expression  that  has  been  burn 
ing  and  signaling  through  ages  upon 
ages  of  human  history — the  look  of  the 
mother,  the  angel  of  self-sacrifice  to  the 
earth. 

"While  we  wait,  we  might  go  a  little 
way  into  this  general  matter,  since  you, 
in  the  study  of  portraiture,  will  always 
have  to  deal  with  it.  This  look  of  hers, 
which  you  have  caught  on  your  can 
vases,  and  all  the  other  great  beacon- 
lights  of  human  expression,  stand  of 
course  for  the  inner  energies  of  our 
lives,  the  leading  forces  of  our  charac 
ters.  But,  as  ages  pass,  human  life 
changes;  its  chief  elements  shift  their 
relative  places,  some  forcing  their  way 
no 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

to  the  front,  others  being  pushed  to  the 
rear;  and  the  prominent  beacon-lights 
change  correspondingly.  Ancient  ones 
go  out,  new  ones  appear ;  and  the  art  of 
portraiture,  which  is  the  undying  his 
torian  of  the  human  countenance,  is 
subject  to  this  shifting  law  of  the  birth 
and  death  of  its  material. 

"Perhaps  more  ancient  lights  have 
died  out  of  human  faces  than  modern 
lights  have  been  kindled  to  replace 
them.  Do  you  understand  why?  The 
reason  is  this :  throughout  an  immeasur 
able  time  the  aim  of  nature  was  to  make 
the  human  countenance  as  complete  an 
instrument  of  expression  as  it  could  pos 
sibly  be.  Man,  except  for  his  gestures 
and  wordless  sounds,  for  ages  had  noth 
ing  else  with  which  to  speak;  he  must 
speak  with  his  face.  And  thus  the 
primitive  face  became  the  chronicle  of 
what  was  going  on  within  him  as  well 
in 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

as  of  what  had  taken  place  without. 
It  was  his  earliest  bulletin-board  of  in 
telligence.  It  was  the  first  parchment 
to  bear  tidings ;  it  was  the  original  news 
paper  ;  it  was  the  rude,  but  vivid,  prime 
val  book  of  the  woods.  The  human 
face  was  all  that.  Ages  more  had  to 
pass  before  spoken  language  began, 
and  still  other  ages  before  written 
language  began.  Thus  for  an  immeas 
urable  time  nature  developed  the  face 
and  multiplied  its  expressions  to  enable 
man  to  make  himself  understood.  At 
last  this  development  was  checked; 
what  we  may  call  the  natural  occupation 
of  the  face  culminated.  Civilization  be 
gan,  and  as  soon  as  civilization  began, 
the  decline  in  natural  expressiveness  be 
gan  with  it.  Gradually  civilization  sup 
planted  primeval  needs;  it  contrived 
other  means  for  doing  what  the  face 
alone  had  done  frankly,  marvelously. 
112 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

When  you  can  print  news  on  paper,  you 
may  cease  to  print  news  on  the  living 
countenance.  Moreover,  the  aim  of 
civilization  is  to  develop  in  us  the  con 
sciousness  not  to  express,  but  to  sup 
press.  Its  aim  is  not  to  reveal,  but  to 
conceal,  thought  and  emotion;  not  to 
make  the  countenance  a  beacon-light, 
but  a  muffler  of  the  inner  candle,  what 
ever  that  candle  for  the  time  may  be. 
All  our  ruling  passions,  good  or  bad, 
noble  or  ignoble,  we  now  try  publicly  to 
hide.  This  is  civilization.  And  thus 
the  face,  having  started  out  expression 
less  in  nature,  tends  through  civilization 
to  become  expressionless  again. 

"How  few  faces  does  any  one  of  us 
know  that  frankly  radiate  the  great  pas 
sions  and  moods  of  human  nature! 
What  little  is  left  of  this  ancient  tre 
mendous  drama  is  the  poor  pantomime 
of  the  stage.  Search  crowds,  search 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

the  streets.  See  everywhere  masked 
faces,  telling  as  little  as  possible  to 
those  around  them  of  what  they  glory 
in  or  what  they  suffer.  Search  modern 
portrait  galleries.  Do  you  find  por 
traits  of  either  men  or  women  who  radi 
ate  the  overwhelming  passions,  the  vital 
moods,  of  our  galled  and  soaring  na 
ture?  It  is  not  a  long  time  since  the 
Middle  Ages.  In  the  stretch  of  history 
centuries  shrink  to  nothing,  and  the 
Middle  Ages  are  as  the  earlier  hours  of 
our  own  historic  day.  But  has  there 
not  been  a  change  even  within  that  short 
time?  Did  not  the  medieval  portrait- 
painters  portray  in  their  sitters  great 
moods  as  no  painter  portrays  them 
now?  How  many  painters  of  to-day 
can  find  great  moods  in  the  faces  of 
their  sitters? 

"And  so  I  come  again  to  your  model. 
What  makes  her  so  remarkable,  so  sig- 
114 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

nificant,  so  touching,  so  exquisite,  so 
human,  is  the  fact  that  her  face  seems 
almost  a  survival  out  of  a  past  in  which 
the  beacon-lights  of  humanity  did  more 
openly  appear  on  the  features.  In  her 
case  one  beacon-light  most  of  all, — the 
greatest  that  has  ever  shone  on  the  faces 
of  women, — the  one  which  seems  to  be 
slowly  vanishing  from  the  faces  of  mod 
ern  women — the  look  of  the  mother: 
that  transfiguration  of  the  countenance 
of  the  mother  who  believed  that  the 
birth  of  a  child  was  the  divine  event  in 
her  existence,  and  the  emotions  and 
energies  of  whose  life  centered  about  her 
offspring.  How  often  does  any  living 
painter  have  his  chance  to  paint  that 
look  now !  Galleries  are  well  filled  with 
portraits  of  contemporary  women  who 
have  borne  children:  how  often  among 
these  is  to  be  found  the  portrait  of  the 
mother  of  old?"  ' 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

He  rose.  The  talk  was  ended.  He 
looked  again  at  his  watch,  and  said : 

"It  does  not  seem  worth  while  to  wait 
longer.  Evidently  your  model  has  been 
kept  away  to-day.  Let  us  hope  that  no 
ill  has  befallen  her  and  that  she  will  be 
here  to-morrow.  If  she  is  here,  we  shall 
go  on  with  the  portrait.  If  she  should 
not  be  here,  I  shall  have  another  model 
ready,  and  we  shall  take  up  another 
study  until  she  returns.  Bring  fresh 


canvases." 


He  left  the  room.  They  lingered, 
looking  again  at  their  canvases,  under 
standing  their  own  work  as  they  had 
not  hitherto  and  more  strongly  than 
ever  drawn  toward  their  model  whom 
that  day  they  missed.  Slowly  and  with 
disappointment  and  with  many  conjec 
tures  as  to  why  she  had  not  come,  they 
separated. 


116 


V 

IT     was     Sunday.     All     round     St. 
Luke's  Hospital  quiet  reigned.     The 
day   was   very    still   up   there    on    the 
heights  under  the  blue  curtain  of  the 
sky. 

When  he  had  been  hurled  against  the 
curb  on  the  dark  street,  had  been  rolled 
over  and  tossed  there  and  left  there  with 
no  outcry,  no  movement,  as  limp  ana 
senseless  as  a  mangled  weed,  the  care 
less  crowd  which  somewhere  in  the  city 
every  day  gathers  about  such  scenes 
quickly  gathered  about  him.  In  this 
throng  was  the  physician  whose  car 
stood  near  by;  and  he,  used  to  sights  of 
suffering  but  touched  by  that  tragedy 
of  unconscious  child  and  half-crazed 
117 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

mother,  had  hurried  them  in  his  own  car 
to  St.  Luke's — to  St.  Luke's,  which  is 
always  open,  always  ready,  and  always 
free  to  those  who  lack  means. 

Just  before  they  stopped  at  the  en 
trance  she  had  pleaded  in  the  doctor's 
ear  for  a  luxury. 

"To  the  private  ward,"  he  said  to 
those  who  lifted  the  lad  to  the  stretcher, 
speaking  as  though  in  response  to  her 
entreaty 

"One  of  the  best  rooms,"  he  said  be 
fore  the  operation,  speaking  as  though 
he  shouldered  the  responsibility  of  the 
further  expense.  "And  a  room  for  her 
near  by,"  he  added.  "Everything  for 
them !  Everything !" 

So  there  he  was  now,  the  lad,  or  what 
there  was  left  of  him,  this  quiet  Sunday, 
in  a  pleasant  room  opposite  the  cathe 
dral.     The  air  was  like  early  summer. 
118 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

The  windows  were  open.  He  lay  on  his 
back,  not  seeing  anything.  The  skin 
of  his  forehead  had  been  torn  off; 
there  was  a  bandage  over  his  eyes. 
And  there  were  bruises  on  his  body  and 
bruises  on  his  face,  which  was  horribly 
disfigured.  The  lips  were  swollen  two 
or  three  thicknesses;  it  was  agony  for 
him  to  speak.  When  he  realized  what 
had  happened,  after  the  operation,  his 
first  mumbled  words  to  her  were: 
'They  will  never  have  me  now/' 
About  the  middle  of  the  forenoon  of 
this  still  Sunday  morning,  when  the  doc 
tor  left,  she  followed  him  into  the  hall 
as  usual,  and  questioned  him  as  usual 
with  her  eyes.  He  encouraged  her  and 
encouraged  himself: 

"I  believe  he  is  going  to  get  well.    He 
has  the  will  to  get  well,  he  has  the  brav 
ery  to  get  well.     He  is  brave  about  it; 
he  is  as  brave  as  he  can  be." 
119 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

"Of  course  he  is  brave,"  she  said 
scornfully.  "Of  course  he  is  brave/' 

"The  love  of  such  a  mother  would 
call  him  back  to  life/'  he  added,  and  he 
laid  one  of  his  hands  on  her  head  for  a 
moment. 

"Don't  do  that,"  she  said,  as  though 
the  least  tenderness  toward  herself  at 
such  a  moment  would  unnerve  her,  melt 
away  all  her  fortitude. 

Everybody  had  said  he  was  brave,  the 
head  nurse,  the  day  nurse,  the  night 
nurse,  the  woman  who  brought  in  the 
meals,  the  woman  who  scrubbed  the 
floor.  All  this  had  kept  her  up.  If 
anybody  paid  any  kind  of  tribute  to  him, 
realized  in  any  way  what  he  was,  this 
was  life  to  her. 

After  the  doctor  left,  as  the  nurse 
was  with  him,  she  walked  up  and  down 
the  halls,  too  restless  to  be  quiet. 

At  the  end  of  one  hall  she  could  look 
120 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

down  on  the  fragrant  leafy  park.  Yes, 
summer  was  nigh.  Where  a  little  while 
before  had  been  only  white  blossoms, 
there  were  fewer  white  now,  more  pink, 
some  red,  many  to  match  the  yellow  of 
the  sun.  The  whole  hillside  of  sway 
ing  boughs  seemed  to  quiver  with  hap 
piness.  Her  eyes  wandered  farther 
down  to  the  row  of  houses  at  the  foot 
of  the  park.  She  could  see  the  dread 
ful  spot  on  the  street,  the  horrible 
spot.  She  could  see  her  shattered  win 
dow-panes  up  above.  The  points  of 
broken  glass  still  seemed  to  slit  the  flesh 
of  her  hands  within  their  bandages. 

She  shrank  back  and  walked  to  the 
end  of  the  transverse  hall.  Across  the 
road  was  the  cathedral.  The  morning 
service  was  just  over.  People  were 
pouring  out  through  the  temporary  side 
doors  and  the  temporary  front  doors  so 
placidly,  so  contentedly!  Some  were 
121 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

evidently  strangers ;  as  they  reached  the 
outside  they  turned  and  studied  the 
cathedral  curiously  as  those  who  had 
never  before  seen  it.  Others  turned  and 
looked  at  it  familiarly,  with  pride  in  its 
unfolding  form.  Some  stopped  and 
looked  down  at  the  young  grass,  strok 
ing  it  with  the  toes  of  their  fine  shoes; 
they  were  saying  how  fresh  and  green 
it  was.  Some  looked  up  at  the  sky; 
they  were  saying  how  blue  it  was. 
Some  looked  at  one  another  keenly; 
they  were  discussing  some  agreeable 
matter,  being  happy  to  get  back  to  it 
now  after  the  service.  Not  one  of  them 
looked  across  at  the  hospital.  Not  a 
soul  of  them  seemed  to  be  even  aware 
of  its  existence.  Not  a  soul  of  them! 
Particularly  her  eyes  became  riveted 
upon  two  middle-aged  ladies  in  black 
who  came  out  through  a  side  door  of  the 
cathedral — slow-paced  women,  bereft, 
122. 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

full  of  pity.  As  they  crossed  the  yard, 
a  gray  squirrel  came  jumping  along  in 
front  of  them  on  its  way  to  the  park. 
One  stooped  and  coaxed  it  and  tried  to 
pet  it:  it  became  a  vital  matter  with 
both  of  them  to  pour  out  upon  the  little 
creature  which  had  no  need  of  it 
their  pent-up,  ungratified  affection. 
With  not  a  glance  to  the  window 
where  she  stood,  with  her  mortal  need  of 
them,  her  need  of  all  mothers,  of  every 
body — her  mortal  need  of  everybody! 
Why  were  they  not  there  at  his  bedside  ? 
Why  had  they  not  heard?  Why  had 
not  all  of  them  heard?  Why  had  any 
thing  else  been  talked  of  that  day  ?  Why 
were  they  not  all  massed  around  the  hos 
pital  doors,  tearful  with  their  sympa 
thies?  How  could  they  hold  services 
in  the  cathedral — the  usual  services? 
Why  was  it  not  crowded  to  the  doors 
with  the  clergy  of  all  faiths  and  the  lay- 
123 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

men  of  every  land,  lifting  one  outcry 
against  such  destruction?  Why  did 
they  not  stop  building  temples  to  God, 
to  the  God  of  life,  to  the  God  who  gave 
little  children,  until  they  had  stopped 
the  massacre  of  children,  His  children 
in  the  streets ! 

Yes ;  everybody  had  been  kind.  Even 
his  little  rivals  who  had  fought  with  him 
over  the  sale  of  papers  had  given  up 
some  of  their  pennies  and  had  bought 
flowers  for  him,  and  one  of  them  had 
brought  their  gift  to  the  main  hospital 
entrance.  Every  day  a  shy  group  of 
them  had  gathered  on  the  street  while 
one  came  to  inquire  how  he  was.  Kind 
ness  had  rained  on  her;  there  was  that 
in  the  sight  of  her  that  unsealed  kind 
ness  in  every  heart. 

She  had  been  too  nearly  crazed  to 
think  of  this.  Her  bitterness  and  an 
guish  broke  through  the  near  cordon  of 
124 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

sympathy  and  went  out  against  the 
whole  brutal  and  careless  world  that  did 
not  care — to  legislatures  that  did  not 
care,  to  magistrates  that  did  not  care,  to 
juries  that  did  not  care,  to  officials  that 
did  not  care,  to  drivers  that  did  not  care, 
to  the  whole  city  that  did  not  care  about 
the  massacre  in  the  streets. 

Through  the  doors  of  the  cathedral 
the  people  streamed  out  unconcerned. 
Beneath  her,  along  the  street,  young 
couples  passed,  flushed  with  their  climb 
of  the  park  hillside,  and  flushed  with 
young  love,  young  health.  Sometimes 
they  held  each  other's  hands;  they 
innocently  mocked  her  agony  with  their 
careless  joy. 

One  last  figure  issued  from  the  side 
door  of  the  cathedral  hurriedly  and 
looked  eagerly  across  at  the  hospital — 
looked  straight  at  her,  at  the  window, 
and  came  straight  toward  the  entrance 
125 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

below — the  choir-master.  She  had  not 
sent  word  to  him  or  to  any  one  about 
the  accident ;  but  he,  when  his  new  pupil 
had  failed  to  report  as  promised,  had 
come  down  to  find  out  why.  And  he, 
like  all  the  others,  had  been  kind;  and 
he  was  coming  now  to  inquire  what  he 
could  do  in  a  case  where  nothing  could 
be  done.  She  knew  only  too  well  that 
nothing  could  be  done. 

The  bright  serene  hours  of  the  day 
passed  one  by  one  with  nature's  care 
lessness  about  the  human  tragedy.  It 
was  afternoon  and  near  the  hour  for 
the  choral  even-song  across  the  way  at 
the  cathedral,  the  temporary  windows 
of  which  were  open. 

She  had  relieved  the  nurse,  and  was 

alone  with  him.  Often  during  these  days 

he  had  put  out  one  of  his  hands  and 

groped  about  with  it  to  touch  her,  turn- 

126 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

ing  his  head  a  little  toward  her  under 
his  bandaged  eyes,  and  apparently  feel 
ing  much  mystified  about  her,  but  say 
ing  nothing.  She  kept  her  bandaged 
hands  out  of  his  reach  but  leaned  over 
him  in  response  and  talked  ever  to  him, 
barely  stroking  him  with  the  tips  of  her 
stiffened  fingers. 

The  afternoon  was  so  quiet  that  by 

and  by  through  the  opened  windows  a 

deep  note  sent  a  thrill  into  the  room — 

the  awakened  soul  of  the  organ.     And 

as  the  two  listened  to  it  in  silence,  soon 

there  floated  over  to  them  the  voices  of 

the  choir  as  the  line  moved  slowly  down 

the    aisle,    the    blended    voices    of    the 

chosen  band,  his  school-fellows  of  the 

altar.     By    the    bedside    she    suddenly 

rocked  to  and  fro,  and  then  she  bent 

over  and  said  with  a  smile  in  her  tone : 

"Do  you  hear?    Do  you  hear  them?" 

He  made  a  motion  with  his  lips  to 

127 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

speak  but  they  hurt  him  too  much.  So 
he  nodded :  that  he  heard  them. 

A  moment  later  he  tugged  at  the  band 
age  over  his  eyes. 

She  sprang  toward  him : 

"O  my  precious  one,  you  must  not 
tear  the  bandage  off  your  eyes !" 

"I  want  to  see  you!"  he  mumbled. 
"It  has  been  so  long  since  I  saw  you! 
What's  the  matter  with  you?  Where 
are  your  hands?  Why  don't  you  put 
your  arms  around  me?" 


128 


VI 

THE  class  had  been  engaged  with 
another  model.  Their  work  was 
forced  and  listless.  As  days  passed 
without  the  mother's  return,  their 
thought  and  their  talk  concerned  itself 
more  and  more  with  her  disappearance. 
Why  had  she  not  come  back?  What 
had  befallen  her?  What  did  it  all 
mean?  Would  they  ever  know? 

One  day  after  their  luncheon-hour,  as 
they  were  about  to  resume  work,  the 
teacher  of  the  class  entered.  He  looked 
shocked ;  his  look  shocked  them ;  instant 
sympathy  ran  through  them.  He  spoke 
with  difficulty: 

"She  has  come  back.  She  is  down 
stairs.  Something  had  befallen  her  in- 
129 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

deed.  She  told  me  as  briefly  as  possi 
ble  and  I  tell  you  all  I  know.  Her  son, 
a  little  fellow  who  had  just  been  chosen 
for  the  cathedral  choir  school  was  run 
over  in  the  street.  A  mention  of  it — 
the  usual  story — was  in  the  papers,  but 
who  of  us  reads  such  things  in  the 
papers?  They  bore  us;  they  are  not 
even  news.  He  was  taken  to  St. 
Luke's,  and  she  has  been  at  St.  Luke's, 
and  the  end  came  at  St.  Luke's,  and  all 
the  time  we  have  been  here  a  few  yards 
distant  and  have  known  nothing  of  it. 
Such  is  New  York !  It  was  to  help  pay 
for  his  education  in  music  that  she  first 
came  to  us,  she  said.  And  it  was  the 
news  that  he  had  been  chosen  for  the 
choir  school  that  accounts  for  the  new 
happiness  which  we  saw  brighten  her 
day  by  day.  Now  she  comes  again  for 
the  same  small  wage,  but  with  other 
need,  no  doubt:  the  expenses  of  it  all, 
130 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

a  rose-bush  for  his  breast.  She  told  me 
this  calmly  as  though  it  caused  her  no 
grief.  It  was  not  my  privilege,  it  is 
not  our  privilege,  to  share  her  unutter 
able  bereavement. 

"She  has  asked  to  go  on  with  the  sit 
tings.  I  have  told  her  to  come  to-mor 
row.  But  she  does  not  realize  all  that 
this  involves  with  the  portrait.  You 
will  have  to  bring  new  canvases,  it  will 
have  to  be  a  new  work.  She  is  in 
mourning.  Her  hands  will  have  to  be 
left  out,  she  has  hurt  them;  they  are 
bandaged.  The  new  portrait  will  be  of 
the  head  and  face  only.  But  the  chief 
reason  is  the  change  of  expression. 
The  light  which  was  in  her  face  and 
which  you  have  partly  caught  upon  your 
canvases,  has  died  out;  it  was  brutally 
put  out.  The  old  look  is  gone.  It  is 
gone,  and  will  never  come  back — the 
tender,  brooding,  reverent  happiness 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

and  peace  of  motherhood  with  the  child 
at  her  knee — that  great  earthly  beacon- 
light  in  women  of  ages  past.  It  was 
brutally  put  out  but  it  did  not  leave 
blankness  behind  it.  There  has  come  in 
its  place  another  light,  another  ancient 
beacon-light  on  the  faces  of  women  of 
old — the  look  of  faith  in  immortal 
things.  She  is  not  now  the  mother  with 
the  tenderness  of  this  earth  but  the 
mother  with  the  expectation  of  eternity. 
Her  eyes  have  followed  him  who  has 
left  her  arms  and  gone  into  a  distance. 
Ever  she  follows  him  into  that  distance. 
Your  portrait,  if  you  can  paint  it,  will 
be  the  mother  with  the  look  of  immortal 
things  in  her  face." 

When    she   entered   the   room   next 
morning,  at  the  sight  of  her  in  mourn 
ing  and  so  changed  in  every  way,  with 
one  impulse  they  all  rose  to  her.     She 
132 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

took  no  notice, — perhaps  it  would  have 
been  unendurable  to  notice, — but  she 
stepped  forward  as  usual,  and  climbed 
to  the  platform  without  faltering,  and 
he  posed  her  for  the  head  and  shoul 
ders.  Then,  to  study  the  effect  from 
different  angles,  he  went  behind  the 
easels,  passing  from  one  to  another. 
As  he  returned,  with  the  thought  of 
giving  her  pleasure,  he  brought  along 
with  him  one  of  the  sketches  of  herself 
and  held  it  out  before  her. 

"Do  you  recognize  it?"  he  asked. 

She  refused  to  look  at  first.  Then 
arousing  herself  from  her  indifference 
she  glanced  at  it.  But  when  she  beheld 
there  what  she  had  never  seen — how 
great  had  been  her  love  of  him;  when 
she  beheld  there  the  light  now  gone  out 
and  realized  that  it  meant  the  end  of 
happy  days  with  him,  she  shut  her  eyes 
quickly  and  jerked  her  head  to  one  side 
133 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

with  a  motion  for  him  to  take  the  pic 
ture  away.  But  she  had  been  brought 
too  close  to  her  sorrow  and  suddenly 
she  bent  over  her  hands  like  a  snapped 
reed  and  the  storm  of  her  grief  came 
upon  her. 

They  started  up  to  get  to  her.  They 
fought  one  another  to  get  to  her.  They 
crowded  around  the  platform,  and 
tried  to  hide  her  from  one  another's 
eyes,  and  knelt  down,  and  wound  their 
arms  about  her,  and  sobbed  with  her; 
and  then  they  lifted  her  and  guided  her 
behind  the  screens. 

"Now,  if  you  will  allow  them,"  he 
said,  when  she  came  out  with  them, 
one  of  them  having  lent  her  a  veil, 
"some  of  these  young  friends  will  go 
home  with  you.  And  whenever  you 
wish,  whenever  you  feel  like  it,  come 
back  to  us.  We  shall  be  ready.  We 
shall  be  waiting.  We  shall  all  be  glad." 
134 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

On  the  heights  the  cathedral  rises — • 
slowly,  as  the  great  houses  of  man's 
Christian  faith  have  always  risen. 

Years  have  drifted  by  as  silently  as 
the  winds  since  the  first  rock  was  riven 
where  its  foundations  were  to  be  laid, 
and  still  all  day  on  the  clean  air  sounds 
the  lonely  clink  of  drill  and  chisel  as  the 
blasting  and  the  shaping  of  the  stone 
goes  on.  The  snows  of  winters  have 
drifted  deep  above  its  rough  beginnings ; 
the  suns  of  many  a  spring  have  melted 
the  snows  away.  Well  nigh  a  genera 
tion  of  human  lives  has  already  meas 
ured  its  brief  span  about  the  corner 
stones.  Far-brought,  many-tongued 
toilers,  toiling  on  the  rising  walls,  have 
dropped  their  work  and  stretched  them 
selves  in  their  last  sleep;  others  have 
climbed  to  their  places;  the  work  goes 
on.  Upon  the  shoulders  of  the  images 
of  the  Apostles,  which  stand  about  the 
135 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

chancel,  generations  of  pigeons — the 
doves  of  the  temple  whose  nests  are  in 
the  niches — upon  the  shoulders  of  the 
Apostles  generations  of  pigeons  born  in 
the  niches  have  descended  out  of  the 
azure  as  with  the  benediction  of  shim 
mering  wings.  Generations  of  the 
wind-borne  seeds  of  wild  flowers  have 
lodged  in  low  crevices  and  have 
sprouted  and  blossomed,  and  as  seeds 
again  have  been  blown  further  on — har 
bingers  of  vines  and  mosses  already  on 
their  venerable  way. 

A  mighty  shape  begins  to  answer 
back  to  the  cathedrals  of  other  lands 
and  ages,  bespeaking  for  itself  admit 
tance  into  the  league  of  the  world's 
august  sanctuaries.  It  begins  to  send 
its  annunciation  onward  into  ages 
yet  to  be,  so  remote,  so  strange,  that 
we  know  not  in  what  sense  the  men 
of  it  will  even  be  our  human  brothers 

136 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

save  as  they  are  children  of  the  same 
Father. 

Between  this  past  and  this  future,  the 
one  of  which  cannot  answer  because  it 
is  too  late  and  the  other  of  which  can 
not  answer  because  it  is  too  soon — be 
tween  this  past  and  this  future  the  cathe 
dral  stands  in  a  present  that  answers 
back  to  it  more  and  more.  For  a  world 
of  living  men  and  women  see  kindled 
there  the  same  ancient  flame  that  has 
been  the  light  of  all  earlier  stations  on 
that  solitary  road  of  faith  which  runs 
for  a  little  space  between  the  two  eter 
nities — a  road  strewn  with  the  dust  of 
countless  wayfarers  bearing  each  a  dif 
ferent  cross  of  burden  but  with  eyes 
turned  toward  the  same  Cross  of  hope. 

As  on  some  mountain-top  a  tall  pine- 
tree  casts  its  lengthened  shadow  upon 
the  valleys  far  below,  round  and  round 
with  the  circuit  of  the  sun,  so  the  cathe- 
137 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

dral  flings  hither  and  thither  across 
the  whole  land  its  spiritual  shaft  of 
light.  A  vast,  unnumbered  throng  be 
gin  to  hear  of  it,  begin  to  look  toward  it, 
begin  to  grow  familiar  with  its  emerg 
ing  form.  In  imagination  they  see  its 
chapels  bathed  in  the  glories  of  the 
morning  sun;  they  remember  its  unfin 
ished  dome  gilded  at  the  hush  of  sunsets. 
Between  the  roar  of  the  eastern  and  of 
the  western  ocean  its  organ  speaks  of 
a  Divine  peace  above  mortal  storm. 
Pilgrims  from  afar,  known  only  to 
themselves  as  pilgrims,  being  pilgrim- 
hearted  but  not  pilgrim-clad,  reach  at 
its  gates  the  borders  of  their  Gethsem- 
ane.  Bowed  as  penitents,  they  hail  its 
lily  of  forgiveness  and  the  resurrection. 
Slowly  the  cathedral  rises,  in  what 
unknown  years  to  stand  finished! 
Crowning  a  city  of  new  people,  let  it  be 
hoped,  of  better  laws.  Finished  and 
138 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

standing  on  its  rock  for  the  order  of 
the  streets,  for  order  in  the  land  and 
order  throughout  the  world,  for  order 
in  the  secret  places  of  the  soul.  Majes- 
tical  rebuker  of  the  waste  of  lives,  re- 
buker  of  a  country  which  invites  all 
lives  into  it  and  wastes  lives  most  ruth 
lessly — lives  which  it  stands  there  to 
shelter  and  to  foster  and  to  save. 

So  it  speaks  to  the  distant  through 
space  and  time ;  but  it  speaks  also  to  the 
near. 

Although  not  half  risen  out  of  the 
earth,  encumbering  it  rough  and  shape 
less,  already  it  draws  into  its  service 
many  who  dwell  around.  These  seek  to 
cast  their  weaknesses  on  its  strength,  to 
join  their  brief  day  to  its  innumerable 
years,  to  fall  into  the  spiritual  splendor 
of  it  as  out  in  space  small  darkened  wan 
derers  drop  into  the  orbit  of  a  sun.  An 
guished  memories  begin  to  bequeath 
139 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

their  jewels  to  its  shrine;  dimmed  eyes 
will  their  tears  to  its  eyes,  its  windows. 
Old  age  with  one  foot  in  the  grave  drags 
the  other  resignedly  about  its  crypt. 
In  its  choir  sound  the  voices  of  children 
herded  in  from  the  green  hillside  of 
life's  April. 

Rachel  Truesdale!  Her  life  became 
one  of  these  near-by  lives  which  it 
blesses,  a  darkened  wanderer  caught 
into  the  splendor  of  a  spiritual  sun.  It 
gathered  her  into  its  service;  it  found 
useful  work  for  her  to  do;  and  in  this 
new  life  of  hers  it  drew  out  of  her  na 
ture  the  last  thing  that  is  ever  born  of 
the  mother — faith  that  she  is  separated 
a  little  while  from  her  children  only  be 
cause  they  have  received  the  gift  of 
eternal  youth. 

Many  a  proud  happy  thought  became 
hers  as  time  went  on.  She  had  had  her 
140 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

share  in  its  glory,  for  it  had  needed  him 
whom  she  had  brought  into  the  world. 
It  had  called  upon  him  to  help  give 
song  to  its  message  and  to  build  that 
ever-falling  rainbow  of  music  over 
which  human  Hope  walks  into  the  eter 
nal. 

Always  as  the  line  of  white-clad  chor 
isters  passed  down  the  aisle,  among  them 
wras  one  who  brushed  tenderly  against 
her  as  he  walked  by,  whom  no  one  else 
saw.  Rising  above  the  actual  voices 
and  heard  by  her  alone,  up  to  the  dome 
soared  a  voice  dearer,  more  thrilling, 
than  the  rest. 

Often  she  was  at  her  window,  watch 
ing  the  workmen  at  their  toil  as  they 
brought  out  more  and  more  the  great 
shape  on  the  heights.  Often  she  stood 
looking  across  at  the  park  hillside  oppo 
site.  Whenever  spring  came  back  and 
the  slope  lived  again  with  young  leaves 
141 


A  CATHEDRAL  SINGER 

and  white  blossoms,  always  she  thought 
of  him.  Always  she  saw  him  playing 
in  an  eternal  April.  When  autumn  re 
turned  and  leaves  withered  and  dropped, 
she  thought  of  herself. 

Sometimes  standing  beside  his  piano. 

Having  always  in  her  face  the  look  of 
immortal  things. 

The  cathedral  there  on  its  rock  for 
ages  saying: 

"I  am  the  Resurrection  and  the  Life." 


THE   END 


142 


U1248 
K 04/45 


MDJL^Il 

Allen.   James  L« 

A427 

A.  cathedra 

I   singer 

ca 

OCT  o  2  Ml 

MENDING     ! 

5EP  2  9  1947 

